The Shadow of the Mountains
by the-small-print-UTT2
Summary: Dunland. The rain-soaked foothills of the Misty mountains are home to a proud, disparate and warlike people. Butchered and driven out of their ancestral lands, it would take little to stir the many tribes into open war with the Free peoples. In such a time, the cost of dissent might be everything. OC stories spanning several years and filling in the gaps about Rohan's oldest foes.
1. Chapter 1: Webspinner

A grey-white cloud and mist shrouded the sky and the land alike in an ethereal brightness, where nothing moved but the wind-stirred gorse, and only the twitter of a skylark broke the muffled silence across the hills.

Braint crouched beneath the blackthorn hedge, watching a little fat spider twine her dewy webs between the thorns. The stone felt rough against the bare skin of her feet, yet she enjoyed the feeling; idly stroking a patch of bright green lichen with the backs of her fingers, and feeling the dewy droplets break on her skin. Anyway, it would give her better grip when the moment came to pounce.

She looked impatiently up and down the gully before her, each end vanishing into the mist that had rolled in up the wild foothills, and listened impatiently to the soft blusters of the wind. The enemy would be along at any moment; they were sure to take this path. Renos was like an animal when he travelled: he would always take the path that looked easiest, and that made him predictable. Nevertheless, she was becoming anxious. They had been waiting here for half an hour at the least, and her reputation as a leader was at stake. She could hear the others shuffling restlessly behind her and she shot them a demanding glare, holding a hand near to the ground to make them quiet.

_There!_

It was as well that she had. Twelve blurred figures were moving cautiously along the gully, but they were moving quietly, and had come further than she had expected them to without being seen. She lowered herself a little, so that her head did not make a silhouette against the bright grey clouds behind, and waved a hand behind her to signal that the ambush was coming close, and to be ready. They each moved into their positions with admirable stealth, and she felt a little flutter of pride, feeling that this battle would be decided soon after it began.

They were coming very close now; just a few paces away and down the stony bank. She drew her sword silently and readied herself to leap.

_Ten strides, eight, five, two… now!_

With a rush of adrenaline and a blood-curdling howl, Braint launched herself from the rock at the leader of the enemy, landing on his back and knocking him into a stagger. But he was strong, and did not fall. With a jerk he threw her off before her sword could find his throat, and she rolled away, ignoring the bump and batter of the rough-clod ground. She leapt up and saw that her companions were locked in deadly battle with their prey, giving loud whoops and yells, or screaming as they fell to the ground.

Braint measured her enemy and charged at him, ducking his thrust and ramming her shoulder into his stomach. Again, he was not knocked down, and her shoulder jarred so she whipped around and swung for his throat. His own blade darted up and countered her swing, then jabbed for her heart. But he was too slow; he had not knocked her blade far enough off course, so she led it down with all the speed she could muster, and it connected with his wrist. Her foe screamed in anger and pain and clutched his forearm as his sword clattered to the ground, and then he was hers. She raised her blade and jabbed forward, striking between his ribs; a fine, clean kill, and one she could be proud of.

As he tumbled limply to the ground, she looked wildly around for her next victim, but found them all fallen or falling, while the remnant of her own party whooped their victory and saw to their wounds. Only four of her own were dead to twelve of theirs. They had done well. She joined in their wild ululation for a moment, dancing about upon the grassy rocks, then sheathed her sword and paced back to the body of her fallen adversary.

"You're too slow, Renos. I was bound to beat you, even if it didn't come down to an ambush," she said to the prostrate form at her feet, a measured scorn in her voice.

"You gave me a splinter – why do you have to hit so hard?" he responded, digging at his bruised wrist with his fingernails and frowning.

"Because," she responded haughtily. "Luain says if you don't try when you're practising, you'll be no good when it's real."

Braint was trying hard not to smile at her own cleverness, though she did feel a measure of guilt for not smoothing her blade before battle as she should have done. She turned to the rest of the children and began taking score, to know who had killed whom, and how.

"I got Nerra; got her before she even saw me!" declared a stringy-red-haired boy proudly, standing with his foot upon his fallen sister's stomach, and nearly losing his balance as she pushed it off and swore at him. "And then Elis got me, and Merros, and Owen," he added with a frown. "But I nearly got him."

"Nearly's not good enough. The crows grow fat on those who nearly win their battles," she told him sagely, echoing her uncle, and trying to copy his seasoned warrior's growl, without much success.

Trying not to blush, she gave Elis a brief glance and a smile, which he returned warmly, sitting upon a lichen-covered stone and spinning his wooden sword on its point against the ground. He was a handsome boy and older Braint; he would be taking his Warrior's trials in the summer of next year, when he turned fifteen and became a man. Nevertheless his experience showed, and Braint would one day ask him to be one of her honour guard. She secretly felt – though she would never admit it – that he may even be a match for her if it came to a real fight.

Once she was sure she knew who had fought and how, she turned to the other children and called out in commanding tones:

"Cambriani! Line!"

The response was immediate, the group charged into their positions as if born to them. The line was in order of rank, and the two oldest – Renos and Elis - came on the highest end, and the youngest and least experienced on the other. Braint took her place at the head of the line and stood to solemn attention as the green-clad figure who had been watching the battle picked her way down from the rocks.

Braint's nerves fluttered again. She had won the skirmish, but what if someone had fought better than her?

Lanis finished her descent and paced towards them. The deep forest green of her tunic set striking counterpoint to her hair – a deep, rich red like autumn leaves, but dark as dried blood - and her bare, pale feet picked a dainty and effortlessly graceful course across the stony ground. She stopped and considered the line for a long moment, before unlooping two holly leaves bound on horse-hair thongs from around her neck. Holly was the mark of the undying; the tree that bled through the darkest times of the year but never died or shed its leaves.

She approached the line and set the first pendant over the head of Elis, making Braint's heart flutter again. It was clear he deserved it, but did she this time? But then, the little girl stopped in front of her and hooked the second leaf around Braint's neck, and she felt the comforting prickle of its thorns against her skin that was the feeling of victory and approval.

She smiled at her sister. It was ever important to win approval fitting to her station. As daughter of the Haldad of the Cambriani – so ancient and proud a tribe – she had to be fierce and fast, and strong and wise, and always honest and honourable. Braint was ever trying to be all of these things, and felt she succeeded in some at least, though it was hard. But Lanis made it seem so easy. She was eight years old and already had the presence of a powerful Dreamer. What's more she already knew her animal – the hare, messenger of the Gods, whose form is marked upon the face of the moon. The strength this gave her was tangible, and stirred in Braint twin feelings of pride and envy. At the same time she wished her sister to be powerful and great, and also lesser, so that she need not feel shame in being outdone and overshadowed by one who was three years younger than herself. And so she was both proud and intimidated now, looking into the deep grey eyes that seemed to have no bottom to them.

She bent to kiss Lanis on the cheek and at the same moment she reached out and tickled her sister's ribs, making her just a girl, giggling and squirming, and breaking the air of solemn wisdom that made Braint feel less.

The group laughed with her, and then Braint turned to them and called out:

"Melee! Choose your partners and arm yourselves!"

Twenty-four pairs of feet ran to a weathered standing stone nearby, where a haphazard pile of wooden armaments was stacked. Braint jostled with the other children and came up with her own shield and a light jerkin of leather scales, which she tossed on over her tunic, then hurried back to the battlefield.

The children divided themselves into two parties of twelve, led respectively by Braint and Elis, then within those groups found their shield-mates and quickly resolved who was to take which role. Lanis beat a hasty retreat and climbed to the top of the standing stone to watch.

Braint chose Renos, the boy she had fought earlier, to take her shield-side; a wordless apology for her earlier scorn. Renos was a good fighter, but he let opportunity blind him on occasion and became reckless, so it would do him good to practice defending and setting up kills for his partner.

And so the two lines faced one another, giving wild invented whoops and taunts, since to use the true war-cries would mean an oath to fight to the death; until one side was victorious or every one of them was slain, and this was only play.

Circling, the lines drew closer and performed several mock-charges, and Braint felt the blood pulse through her veins like fire. The excitement of battle swamped her senses again and she lusted for blood. She gave a wild cry and the lines met with a clash of wood on shield and flesh. A few fell immediately, and a part of Braint watched the battle impartially, noting to herself who held their ground the best, and where the strengths of each child lay. The rest of her teemed with excitement as Renos held out well, engaging their foes so that their attention was distracted from Braint for split-seconds at a time, allowing her to sneak her blade around their guard.

One, then another, and another fell to her blade and the wild thrill of nerves seized her – the euphoria of allowing her body to move almost of its own accord, flowing like water; flawless and powerful; her mind detached, giving directions to her body that were as slight as the nudge of a knee that will make a trained horse spin on the spot. This was how she fought – her strength was not enough to overpower her enemies, but her speed and balance made her deadly.

A girl named Sulla yelled out in mock-agony as Braint hooked her blade behind her knee and brought her to the ground, following up with a quick jab to the chest that left her lying with her tongue out and eyes rolled back – a child's naiive vision of death.

But then something grabbed at Braint's heart for attention. A little feeling like the touch of a cold hand on skin, and she whipped around at once, knowing its source.

Lanis was staring at her from atop the standing stone, crouching and waving frantically for her to silence the group.

Ignoring the whack of a wooden sword across her distracted shoulder, Braint made the frantic 'Tshhh!" noise that was the signal for all to stop without a word, and every eye snapped to her. Her heart beat quickly as she ran over to the foot of the stone, where Lanis was clambering down as quickly as she dared.

"What is it?" she demanded, quietly.

"Someone's coming! There's one on a horse and another on foot, coming this way!" Lanis' eyes were wide, seeming to fill most of her face.

"What tribe?"

"Can't see! Too far! Braint, they are not good, I can feel it in the stone..." 

Braint thought fast. If they all tried to retreat to the village they would be seen. The wind came from the road, and that might have damped the sound of their fighting, and their smell for the horse.

"Alright... yes. Good girl, go and hide up behind the Holly. Sulla, you are best at hiding, make sure she is not seen and run if there is trouble!" 

Braint looked about at the other children, feeling giddy. All of them were flushed and excited, having listened intently to Braint's words with her sister. She felt her mind stall for a few moments before finding the surety and confidence she needed to project.

"We can't run, not faster than a horse, and there is no time! We are going to try to hide, but if we are discovered I want an ambush! Nerra, Owen, hide the weapons! Everyone, off the path! Draw your knives! Shield-mates keep your shields but sword-mates, hide yours! Tarren, Meros, you two find your slings. If I signal, you're going to open the attack – try to hit their sword hands! Then in with spears to knock them off and scare the horse! Knives and shields follow. But no one attack without my word!"

Her ragged group of warriors-to-be had never looked more excited or more driven, or more afraid. Each one of them moved fluidly up the bank and sunk into the gorse and heather, an expression of utmost focus upon their faces. Braint was encouraged by her choice of companions. She took up the same position she had begun in – under the blackthorn bush. The spider was still there, rapidly tangling a moth in her web.

Braint felt bolstered by the sight, though the thrill in her veins was this time tainted with a rising horror. The stakes were higher now, and she could get her friends killed. She must not fail. She took the wooden-tipped spear that Owen handed to her without a word and gestured with her fingers that Renos, her now shield-mate should be ready to run out before her.

As the sound of hooves drew ever nearer, she gripped the holly leaf about her neck, feeling its welcome sting through a heady shroud of adrenaline and bowel-clenching terror. She poked her head up a little to see the two riders approach. Lanis had been right. One man rode upon a strong dun horse, and led a pack-laden remount by its bridle. He wore a dark hood about his face. The other was not a man. It was an urk! On _her_ land!

A cold sweat clammied her hands. The orc was loping along, squinting and straining at the muted sun and cursing as it went

The two horses approached at a brisk trot, and she made a signal behind her back for the two slingers to fit stones to their weapons. Taren and Meros were excellent slingers, and this attack would be much easier if they managed to strike their targets first time. Braint gave the man on the good horse a worried look. His head was a better target, and she knew that she would dearly regret to lose any of her friends to his blade, which looked likely. But they were too close now for her to change her orders.

The orc stopped and stood up straight, sniffing the air like a hound. It could smell them! It tensed and began to turn towards them. Braint flashed the palm of her hand urgently at Taren, and two slingstones whirred overhead at great speed, whilst the mob of children leapt up with a wild yell and charged down the bank.

One stone shattered on the wrist of the better-mounted man and he screamed in pain, doubling over in the saddle. The second shot hit the orc squarely in the teeth with a loud 'crock', and it recoiled like a spider, howling in rage and pain. Elis and Taren rushed at the creature and slammed into it with their shields. Turning, Braint and Renos charged at the mounted man with a yell, and he clumsily drew his sword left-handed and struck out. He was driven more by surprise and alarm than by intent, so Renos caught the strike with his shield, and Braint jabbed hard at the man's throat with her wooden spear, making him gasp and choke and slew sideways from his mount, which whinnied and tossed its head.

The horse was well trained though, and it turned to circle its master, trying to kick at the children as he stuggled upright, reaching for his sword with his left hand, his right hanging limp and useless at his side. After a moment's terrible indecision, Braint turned aside from her victim and charged at the stray horse, knowing that if she could avoid its hooves and get onto its back there was a chance it might accept her before its master could remount. It was a difficult manoeuvre, and as she planted the butt of the spear she felt it slip, making her heart jar, but before she could lose her nerve it caught and she was vaulted up into the air, landing on her belly across the saddle.

Life pulsed through her veins, purer and more real than she had ever felt it, as her heart pounded away like a war-drum and the sharp smells of horse-sweat and leather filled her nose. She almost slid off as the horse jinked sideways, but managed to grasp its rough mane in one hand and a stirrup-strap in the other, pulling with all of her strength to set herself over the saddle. One of her flailing feet found the other stirrup, and within half a heartbeat she was able to swing her left leg over, bruising the inside of her thigh as it met the saddleback, but then sitting fully astride. With an elated rush of disbelief and victory she seized the reins and gripped tight with her knees, at once holding on as the horse wheeled and bucked, and pulling hard to make it calm, trying to soothe it with her voice.

Whether by training or by the confidence it felt from her, the horse began to submit, and stood, tensed but still and indecisive. Braint knew that she could not hesitate, or the horse would begin to buck again; she must act as if the horse were hers and had been for years, so she confidently reined it around to face the battle and flicked it into a charge at the back of its former master. He was sparring ferociously with Elis, whose wooden sword was broken in two, but whose eyes were alight with wildfire and murder, slashing and swinging with his half-sword and his knife bared in his other hand. The orc lay twitching on the ground nearby, its head a pulp of black blood where it had been smashed in by a lump of quartz. The man fought very well with his wrong-handed longsword; doubly so since his right wrist was undoubtedly broken beneath his bracer. But his distraction was his downfall, and he did not notice the thundering of hooves behind until it was too late.

As Braint's new steed closed the last few paces, the man began to half-turn, a look of shock upon his face. The horse's broad chest collided with him and sent him hurtling forward into Elis's swung elbow. There was a sharp 'crack', and Elis leapt back, wincing in pain, but the man collapsed heavily onto the ground. Silence fell, except for a few whimpers and moans, but after what seemed like an age, someone began to cry out in victory.

The sound seemed muffled to Braint and her limbs shook and quivered violently. Her face tingled and she felt heat creep up it as her stomach turned over. She let herself down from the horse and approached the fallen figure. The wild whoops and yells began to fall silent as she did not join them. The world seemed to sink and spin around the focus of the man's body, and she felt horribly afraid of it, though there was no sense behind her fear. She reached a shaking hand out for the man's shoulder, feeling more nauseous by the moment. The last hand's breadth was almost impossible to breach, but she had to know... Her hand touched the rough material of his cloak and pushed tentatively.

She leapt back onto her feet, stifling a yelp as the man let out a long, low groan. She walked in a few short circles, breathing as if she had just run a mile, her arm across her forehead as she shook with relief. She might have thought it fine and honourable to kill an enemy in her own land; certainly all of the songs and tales she had heard made such seem the highest aim of any warrior. Nevertheless, for those moments when she had thought her enemy dead, she had felt immeasurable sickness and guilt, and the relief she now felt was like a salve upon a burn.

Braint halted, realising that she could not indulge herself whilst there was still a danger to her friends.

"Sonos, Merra – bind him tightly, use belts and make sure they have no knives. They can not get away!" 

"Elis..." She looked firm him to the stinking mess of an orc he had left shattered on the ground, and wordlessly tugged the holly from around her own neck and looped it over his. She did not know what to say, but there was whimpering coming from her left, so she turned away almost at once.

She turned away to see who of her friends was hurt. Nerra's face was tear-washed and she was choking and sobbing, rubbing at a bruised throat as her brother tenderly dressed and tied a long cut across her belly, glancing with hatred at the Sprawling orc. Elis was holding his elbow, an ugly grimace upon his face, and Leos looked as though his collar was broken - his face was pale and his breath restrained. Among the others there were a dozen bruises and bleeding lips, but nothing that looked serious.

As the children mercilessly tied the captive man's arms behind his back, Braint found herself feeling a grudging respect for him. Whilst his wrist was clearly broken, he did not cry out as Sonos put his full weight into tightening the belt and tying it; he merely grunted and cursed under his breath in a language she did not recognise.

"Taren, go and catch that horse: we'll need it. The rest of you, fix your knives hard onto the spears so you can use them. I don't want anyone to go close to him! If he won't move, then stab him, but don't kill him or make him so he can't walk."

There was a flurry of activity and purpose in the village that night, and the adults could be seen striding back and forth between the round houses with grim expressions upon their faces. Braint sat alone in the smithy, picking at the hem of her tunic in frustration. She had expected her father and Luain to exclaim in pride, but as she and her friends had met the small host of warriors riding hard to meet them from the village, their expressions had shown only alarm and anger. Cardagos, her father, had roundly berated her for leading an attack of children against the two unknown enemies, and though Luain had said nothing, his expression made clear where his sympathy lay.

Braint kicked her heel mutinously against the log bench and stood up. Her prisoners had been taken away from her and led straight to the Greathouse, and she had not been allowed to follow. There was no justice in that, surely? Hadn't she always been told to show bravery and daring? Hadn't she won a real battle, without losing any of her own? Hadn't she stolen a man's horse from under his very nose?

She crossed her arms and pouted at the silent forge, thinking hard.

No, she wouldn't be shut out. The man was hers, since she had won him. She would hear what he had to say, one way or another.

Unhooking her cloak from a peg, Braint moved outside into the cold night air, feeling the nip of frost at her toes. She skipped quickly across the enclosure, ducking between the stilted granaries and making for the huge, conical silhouette of the Greathouse, looming and impressive against the star-strewn sky.

Nearing it, she leapt lightly up onto the thatch at the low eaves, and crept slowly up until she was a little below the smoke line, where the soot from the fire had made the straw dark. She carefully wormed a hand into the thatch, finding the join between two bundles and easing them gently apart. A glimmer of firelight showed through and a warm rush of air and woodsmoke crossed her face, making her wrinkle her nose. She could not make out the man they had caught, but would see her mother, Gwyddhien, pacing back and forth in her regal woolen robes and glittering golden neck-torc, speaking in the language of the Tharbadders. Her voice was low, and Braint did not know the tongue well, so she put her head close to the tiny hole she had made, straining to hear and understand.

"I hope you're going to fix that when you're finished,"

Braint spun around on the thatch, letting out a squeak of surprise and beginning to slide down it. Her uncle Luain was standing there, larger than life, his shaggy wolfskin cloak draped over his shoulders and his arms crossed, watching her. Putting down her hands to stop her slide, Braint felt her face flush red in embarrassment and indignation.

"I wanted to hear. I didn't think anyone would see me," she said to him, trying to find a defiant tone.

"Oh, I don't think anyone did, but it's hard not to notice a handful of soot and spiders when it lands on your head," growled Luain, beginning to grin.

"Oh," replied Braint, flushing redder by the second.

"Come, do not feel rejected, my girl. Your father was angry earlier because he was afraid for you. Little Lanis came running up to him screaming about orcs and Numen riding through our land, telling that you meant to fight them. Of course he was afraid. It was a dangerous thing to do."

"But they weren't Numen, they were just a man and an urk, and there were only two of them," replied Braint defensively, still not sure whether she was being further berated.

"No, the Dunadan – as they call themselves - are grim and merciless foes, but they do not ally with Urk. Well for you though; Dunad do not fall so easily," he said, rubbing at one of the more pronounced scars on his battered face. "All the same, you need to choose your enemies more carefully. You were lucky none of you died."

Braint stood for a moment, frowning.

"I wouldn't have attacked. But there was no time to run, and that... thing, it smelled us. We couldn't outrun a horse and an Urk," She shivered and hugged herself, frowning at the floor. "I was scared. I know it was dangerous, but if I didn't know what to do."

Luain eyed her with a deeply thoughtful, appraising look.

"And why did you win? Was it because of your courage?"

"It was Elis. He smashed that urk's head in. I couldn't have done that." 

Luain grinned at her, his eyes twinkling. She seemed to have passed some kind of test.

"I know. Lanis told me already. He is a Warrior now; the elders are dying him a kill-feather to wear in his braid. Do not forget your slingers, though. Twelve to one is all well, but it is even better if one has a broken wrist and the other no teeth. I also hear that one brave soul stole a man's horse from under him," Luain's face showed the merest flicker of a grin. "You should commend that person."

Braint stammered in her eagerness to win back some credit for herself.

"I – I… but that was me! I stole his horse! And I used it to knock him down!" 

Luain laughed his great yammering laugh.

"As I said, that person needs commending. I'd give the horses to the slingers, if I were you. Without those shots, I believe you might all be dead."

Braint beamed, hardly daring to believe the reversal in her fortunes. Praise always felt more real coming from Luain than from anyone else, and she loved him for it.

"Away now. If your prize tells us anything that concerns you, I'll let you know. Go and look after your friends. They fought bravely for you and some of them are hurt."

Beaming across her face, she threw her arms around her Uncle's muscular belly and turned and skipped away, feeling as though her skin were glowing with pride.


	2. Chapter 2: The long walk home

A hammering of hooves bounced from the ancient winter-thrown boulders of the valley, echoing and mingling with the rush of the waterfall's misted pool. A strong grey mare was galloping to and fro between the stones, ridden by a slight figure: a girl of perhaps fifteen summers, whose handsome honey-tanned face was bright and alive with focused exhilaration. A delicate scar parted her eyebrow and continued onto her cheek like an errant tear, and her chestnut hair whipped behind her in the breeze.

"Eight out of eight! Excellent! Once more now, come back around!"

With a brilliant thrumming of bunched nerves, excitement and danger, Braint, daughter of Gwyddhien and Cardagos reined her horse around and galloped back towards the makeshift spear stand, now empty but for one long-toothed shaft.

The pounding of hooves and the rush of the wind in her ears kept up a momentum that was echoed by the drumming in her chest. Standing in the stirrups, she cantered past the stand and took up the last spear, tossing it up into the air and catching it again arm-raised so that its tip faced the straw-bag model of the Urk that was her target.

"Keep her straight, put fear into the enemy with your charge! Let him see that he is already dead!"

On any other day she might have resented Luain for his constant advice, but the spirit of the day was almost as high in him as it was in her, and she paid him no heed. The moment of the charge was hers, and his calls turned themselves in her ears into the terrified screams of the black-skinned Urk of the Mountains and the hated Torbruggi cowards as they turned and fled before the storming hooves.

_Fifty paces, thirty, twenty five... now!_

She cast the spear. A pang of anxiety darted across her mind as it left her hand and sailed through the air.

_No no no! Let it hit! Let it hit!_

The spear waggled in its flight and veered right, but not by much. With a heady rush of exhilaration, she heard the hushing thud and crack as it passed cleanly through the target's thick neck, severing the wooden pole that represented its spine. The spray of grey dust became in her battle-lusting eyes a spurt of black-red blood as the head flopped sideways, held on by a few thumbs of rough reed sacking. The thick iron helmet dropped with a thudding smack onto the wet grass below and rolled to a halt.

Whooping her victory at the top of her lungs, Braint leapt from the saddle in a manoeuvre she would never normally dare to try - the warrior's dismount at the gallop. With a wild cry she launched herself forwards out of the stirrups, rolled on her shield arm and came up running. The Gods were with her today, and she could do no wrong.

She skittered to a stop in front of Luain, whose eyes momentarily glowed with pride. A lesser man might have wept at the moment, but the scarred old warrior, decked out in his full compliment of ragged kill-feathers and with his golden wolf-headed torc about his neck stood to attention with an expression of fierce-faced joy and pride which was almost too much for Braint.

With all the strength and depth he could muster, he called into the air,

"Gods! Ancestors! The last test is passed! Here is Braint, Gwyddhien's daughter; she who dreams of eagles! Warrior of the Cambriani!"

His voice boomed and echoed around the god-filled valley she had chosen as the place both to seek her spirit-dreams and to take the spear tests that were the final part of her initiation. The meltwater-swollen waterfall behind roared its approval and the great standing stones thrown down into the valley echoed the old Warrior's voice and sent it back to them a hundredfold, filling Braint's mind with his words.

He banged his fist to his chest and then threw out his palm to face her in the salute of one warrior to another upon victory in battle.

Braint fought with all the strength she had to control the exhilaration welling inside of her, and to stop it from bursting out as tears. She returned the salute with good grace and only a slight blur in her vision. The two warriors stood for a moment, statues of dignity, revelling in their shared pride, and then there was the joyful rumble of laughter as Luain stepped forwards out of his salute and flung his arms wide. Braint choked a laugh and tears began to roll down her face. She leapt forward into his embrace, pressing her ear to his chest to hear the cavernous booming of mirth, and breathing in the smells of horse and wolf and man that always hung so strongly and reassuringly around him.

"Perfectly executed, Brother-Daughter!" the giant exclaimed, slapping her on the back. "Your ancestors look well upon you, my love. The Eagle of your dreams chose wisely. I've not seen a warrior of your age fly from the saddle like that in many a year!"

With this he took her firmly by the shoulders and stood her an arm's length away, looking fondly upon her tear-streaked, beaming face.

"Oh, now that won't do! This warrior has no battle-braid in her hair!" he called out theatrically to the empty valley. He took from his pouch a two-tone grey dove's feather and showed her how to braid it onto her hair.

"There, in the mark of many more and of greater value to come, my warrior," he said to her, clapping her on the shoulder.

Choking back an ecstatic giggle, she shot a covetous glance at his many kill-feathers, all genuine and bound about by gold or silver wire, a mark of the many battles he had fought and the turns of the wire numbering the his kills. Amongst them were three of the ragged black crow's feathers with the quills dyed in a dark grey-green that were most highly prized of all, as they showed that he had fought the Great-Urk of the southernmost tip of the Cloudspine, those who came without warning but with a massive stance, a regimental discipline and a sheer monstrous energy that could not be stopped except at bitter price.

"Now then! Let us bundle up your spears and go to fetch your serpent-sword. I am sure that is what you have been truly waiting for!"

Braint's smile broadened as her excitement mounted. Her father's sword… how it would be to hold it in her hand! It was too long for her, but she had bullied her uncle into making her a blade of the same weight and length so that she might practice with it. It had been hard work, but she had never been afraid of effort when it came to proving herself as a warrior. Long years of daily practice had given her callused hands and the lithe muscles of a dancer. Still, her father's blade was legendary. It had passed from father to daughter, mother to son since Hella, the daughter of Wulf ap Freca took it from her father's body where it lay on the battlefield. To hold such a blade, even if only for the Ceremony, would be the deepest of honours.

Laughing and joking they set about tying up the bundle of spears and strapped them to the saddle of Luain's tall dun stallion. All were already grouped as they had been plucked from the chestplate of the target except for the last, which had buried itself in the tussocky long grass and frosted wildflowers behind.

They mounted and turned their horses to face home, away from the mountains, delighting in the fine weather the Gods had chosen to send for the first true day of spring in the mountains. The clear, bright blue sky and golden sun warmed the soul and the skin against the last remnants of crisp and frost that still hid in the shadows, and the tall beech trees were laden with swelling buds just beginning to break into the flags of perfect emerald-green that only spring leaves could achieve. The Dreamers' grove of ancient, twisted holly trees still bled with the last browning berries of winter. A brown hare bolted for their cover, heavily pregnant and wet from the melted frost.

It was a long ride and they spent much of it singing in tandem the stories of their people; of Ordovec and his rejection of the Darkfather, of Freca's murder by the Forgoil King Helm, and Wulf's victory that came so close before being snatched away; and of Maroc, whose Dreaming was so strong that she rocked the very peaks of the Cloudspine, collapsing the caves of the Urk who had beset them and leading her people to victory. Last, they sang the song of Caradoc - her father - who had snatched back young Gwyddhien from the cowardly Torbruggi, who had attacked without warning after luring the leaders of her tribe to a poisoned feast.

"Pah. He would have died a dozen times over had I not been there with my hammer. And then the songs would be of Luain!"

Braint grinned at him. She had heard the story many times, and counted the silver rings on his yellow Torbruggi kill-feather over and over. She hoped one day to earn some of her own.

A cloud that Braint had not even seen pulled across the sun, taking with it the warmth of the day and a measure of her good humour. She stopped grinning and furrowed her brows at Luain, seeing that he had also become more alert.

"What think you? A sign?"

The bear-like man flicked the battle-braids from his face and looked around, frowning.

"Perhaps," he rumbled. "The gods speak more clearly to you than they ever have to me, my girl. Do you feel warning?"

Braint nodded mutely, pursing her lips worriedly. The tingling up and down her spine was not born of the shadow alone, and she tried to see which of her senses was telling her to beware. She could not smell anything out of the ordinary; just the flowering gorse and the musk of a passing fox. Meltwater rushed distantly in a stream, cut by the flopping splash of an eel, and a few crows clattered overhead.

"There! Smoke!" she hissed, a cold hook tugging at her innards. "There is smoke over the village!"

The old warrior growled as he looked out towards the billowing column of black smoke that had just begun to rise a few hills away, exactly where their path was leading.

"Quickly! To the gallop! Treachery!"

He kicked the dun stallion into a gallop and Braint reined her mare after it, all the joy of the day draining from her to be replaced by a sullen dread. Her mind raced almost as fast as the branches could whip past her head.

_Betrayal... but who did Luain mean? Berkos of the Torbruggi? No, of course not. He was an open enemy, and a coward, and did not command enough spears or respect to attack the Cambrani in full daylight. Then who? Who among our friends would wish us dead without calling war upon us first?_

The question swirled around and around in Braint's mind as she galloped, noting the froth forming around the horses' mouths and the rasping of their breath, and each time it found no answer. The two neighbouring tribes were oath-sworn to her mother, and would risk the gods' wrath for such a crime. Besides, each was too small to attack alone.

_We shall see. If they have hurt Lanis, I will skin them all alive._

Braint could feel her steed's energy sapping away and failing as they began the last rise before the village. There came clear the sounds of screaming and shouted orders, the clash of steel on steel and proudly-sung battle-songs.

_Oh Gods, they're losing. They are singing their death-songs._

The hard-run mare finally stumbled as a rock gave way beneath her hoof and weakly kicked, trying to stand. Braint rolled off and began to call to Luain, whose stallion was breathing like a saw and had bloodied foam at his lips.

"Luain... we must go in on foot, they are - " she stopped dead as a monstrous snarl came from over the rise, and was answered by an equally horrible roar.

"Urk! Urk! They have Urk!"

Her panicked voice rose high like a girl's; not the steady calm of a warrior.

Her heart was hammering at her chest and there was a whining in her ears. Luain growled and leapt down from his horse. He cut the thongs holding the bundled spears and let them tumble to the ground. Taking the bundle and tossing one to her, he gestured forwards. She ran weak-legged to the top of the slope and for a moment stood awestruck at what she saw. The hillfort was burning in several places, and a large part of the wooden palisade had been torn down. The Cambrani warriors had held their ground though, and a line of them filled the gap, keeping their shields linked and fighting bravely against...

….fifty Great Urk were swinging their great toothed swords with the strength of maddened bulls, and dashing at the warriors' faces with their iron shields. Behind them, jeering, was a man in a white cloak, not of any apparent tribe, surrounded by five of his guard.

With an enraged snarl Luain tossed his spear with all of his enormous strength. The man's jeering stopped short as the spear caught him fully in the back and buried itself up to a quarter of its length in his flesh. The guards spun around with cries of alarm and anger, and began to dash towards Luain and Braint, swords and shields raised. Luain took up another spear and hurled it, and then another and another, whilst Braint stood mutely by, holding her spear upright, dumbfounded and held by bowel-clenching fear.

The first spear missed, but the second and third were blocked by the mens' shields, forcing them to drop them and run forward bearing only their swords and axes.

"Braint! On your guard!"

With a roared curse Luain drew his sword in one hand and hefted his smith's hammer in the other. He hurled himself at the attackers. One fell instantly, cowed into dropping his guard by the giant's anger, and another was too slow with his shield, catching the hammer fully in the throat. He collapsed, gurgling, to the muddied earth.

With a jerk, Braint realised that she was standing idle when she should be fighting to the death alongside her uncle. She regretted the lack of sword and shield, with which she was best trained, but instead leapt forward, eyes wide with fear, swinging the spear at the nearest warrior's throat, and kicking sparks off the rim of his shield as he blocked the swipe. She leapt aside from the counter-thrust that came from under his shield, and brought the butt of her spear around, whirling towards his face, and feeling the slight sickening knock as it caught and broke the bridge of his nose, sending him staggering back into Luain's sword thrust.

Another of the guards lay dead at his feet, and the fifth was running for the cover of the Urk line. He tumbled and fell as another of Luain's spears caught him squarely in the small of his back, and lay moaning and writhing upon the bloodied grass.

"We can't get through here... too many!" Luain roared, looking about wildly for another entrance. "There! The Gods' gate!"

A hundred paces around the great palisade wall, there was a small, wooden gate that every man and woman of the tribe had used just once, as he or she returned from their Dreaming in the wilds, in the dazed and gods-filled state that marked their movement into adulthood. It was sacrilege to enter it at any other time, for whatever purpose, but it was the only way into the fortress.

Four Great-Urk relentlessly hacked, cut and splintered the beautifully woven signs of the Dreaming that were painted upon the sturdy oaken gate, grunting their effort and curses to the few warriors who were on the other side, barricading it against them.

Braint ran after Luain towards them, her legs shaking as if she were in a fever, and the cold sweat on her palms causing her to drop her spear twice and stumble on the uneven ground.

The rushing whine increased in her ears as she crouched behind a small birch tree with Luain, twenty paces behind the raging Urk, and his low rumble of instructions sounded muffled to her, and her mind raced to emptiness, taking clumsy moments to understand his words.

"Their armour's weak at the back of the legs and under their ribs, but the warriors above the gate would as well save their arrows from that angle." Surely enough, the two bowmen in the nest above the gate shot straight down onto the Great-Urk and found no gaps in their thick platen armour.

"I'm going to cast my last spear to get their attention and humble one of the damned things maybe, but you must get inside. You can't fight them with just a spear in your hands, and an eagle can fly over a gate where a wolf can't. Those bowmen will get a prettier target with the cursed blackskins coming for me. Now, away! Behind the yew, there!"

Unthinkingly, Braint lurched upwards and ran shakily towards a stunted yew-tree ten paces to Luain's right. Five paces from it, the meaning of his words struck her.

_He's going to die so I can get over the wall. Oh Gods..._

She turned and stumbled, looking imploringly at him where he crouched, his battered old handsome face set in an expression of determination and barely-surpressed rage.

"Luai..."

Her pitiful choke of protest was cut short by a glare from the warrior, and he gestured harshly to the yew tree again, his fingers making a sacred sign that assured her instant obedience. Trying desperately not to burst into panicked tears, Braint turned and ran the last few paces to the yew tree and hid herself as best she could.

Luain burst from behind a tree with the roar of a dragon, casting his spear with all of his strength. It found its mark where the plates met on the back of one of the Great-Urk, which made a gurgling roar of rage, arching over backwards and dropping its weapons to clutch at the spear protruding from its back, and presenting its throat for the bowmen above. It fell, two shafts projecting from its throat, landing so that the spear pushed its way almost through the chestplate. The three others looked around, dumbfounded for a moment, and then charged, roaring, towards Luain, who held his sword and hammer ready. Almost not daring to look, Braint felt a tingle of panic at her back and broke from cover and rushed towards the wall. An arrow caught one of the Great-Urk where the tendons stood out in the back of its knee and it fell with a grunt, catching another in its exposed hamstring.

The wall did not seem to be coming any closer, and rocks jumped and rolled from the mud beneath her feet as Braint ran up the short hill. There was a horrible sensation of the skin on her back tightening in expectation of the hooked blade that would surely sever her spine at any moment, and time slowed, so the wall seemed a year's run away.

With a final rush she planted the butt of her spear into the ground and leapt with all of her might at the wall, using the spear to vault upwards as she would onto the back of a horse. With a crash that knocked all of the air from her lungs, she hit the wall, managing to grasp between the splintery wooden spikes that served as battlements with her left hand and swung painfully from side to side. She fought for a breath. It did not come, and the screaming and roars of battle became muffled in her ears. Her vision turned red, tinged at the blurred edges with black.

She felt her legs collapse beneath her and cold angular rock pushing painfully at her ribs and realised that she must have fallen, and would now certainly die. She pulled with all her might for a breath of air, and after what seemed an eternity, one came racking into her lungs. The terrible sounds of the world returned.

Fueled by this insignificant victory, she fought desperately to stand, and to her infinite surprise, found that she could. She tottered for a moment, light-headed, and then stooped to pick up her spear. Turning, she jogged back a few paces and pinched her eyes tight, too late. She had already seen the two strewn bodies of Urk at Luain's feet, and heard the monstrous snarl of rage as the last of the three, that wielded a great two-handed sword and no shield, lifted its blade and swung so fiercely that it could not be blocked by the tired warrior.

Her ears conveyed to her the ringing 'tang' of a sword being knocked aside, and the sickening crunch as the blade found its way from collar-bone to hip and out the other side.

Unable to contain an eruptive sob and a feverish wave of nausea, Braint turned and charged at the wall, screaming her tear- streaked plea to the Gods, throwing her full strength at the spear. She felt the swooping rush as she sailed through the air towards the wall. She hit higher up this time and felt a hand grasp her elbow and roughly yank her upwards. A cry of alarm did not quite block out the methodical grunt and thrumming swish of the Great-Urk Captain as he swung his grisly sword from behind her blind back. There was a splintering thud as its hooked tip buried itself in the palisade, and her foot was twisted aside as the halted blade ground grittily against the bone of her heel, mixing her blood with Luain's.

In a moment of exquisite pain and grief, she felt a rush of panicked energy unfurl inside her. With a roar of effort, the two warriors atop the wall pulled her up and over the built wooden spikes, which rasped roughly across her belly before she flopped to the platform deck, breathless and stricken numb with grief and terror. She felt for the briefest moment the tingle of relief at her rescue, and a heartbeat later felt it swamped with a pouring rage that could not be quenched.

She leapt to her feet, drawing in a deep, pained breath, and grabbed the tip of a pike that was rested against the guard-nest inside. Tossing it up, hand over hand, she turned with a terrible howl of fury that shook her very bones and raked at her throat. She rammed the pike down with all the strength the Gods would lend her, and its tip speared viciously through the up-looking eyehole in the Urk Captain's helm. With a blood-rage the like of which she had never dreamed, she felt the scraping pike pass through the back of the helmet, and heard the crack as the weight of the loose shaft twisted the dead Captain's head back and around so far that its neck broke.

The two warriors stared at her, open-mouthed with amazement, but she had no time for them. Four able-bodied swordsmen had been barricading the gate below and were needed elsewhere.

She leapt down from the wall and landed in a tumbling roll that found her on her feet again, not noticing the hundred pounding pains or the gritty sting of mud working its way into her heel.

Inside the fortress, she could see where the smoke had come from, as it lay still chokingly thick above the ground. The Greathouse was aflame, as was the Elders' place, and several sections of the wall. Massed warriors moved in groups of nine, cloaked in the blue, grey and black plaid cloaks that marked them as Cambriani, fighting savagely against the white-clad men of no-tribe, and the metallic storms of energy that were the Great-Urk. As one, they sang aloud their wish for Mandedd to take their souls when they fell.

Anelis, the Elder Dreamer, stood beside the burning greathouse, and such a ferocity was in her eyes that Braint quailed. All the years were stripped from her as her eyes burned with flickering red fire, screaming curses and incantations at the oncoming foe. The pouring red flames of the thatch whipped and spiralled into the air. A great howl rent the air as a gust of wind caused a sheet of flame to plough into the lines of Urk, wrapping them in an incendiary embrace which caused them to drop their weapons and wail, tearing at their skin and letting off a foul black smoke that made their fellows gag and choke.

The rest of the Dreamers stood around the greatest of the roundhouses that was still whole, chanting in unison with a power that gave heart to the defenders and cowed the white-clad warriors into clumsiness born of terror. The Urk, though, were not afraid. Perhaps they had not heard the stories of the Dreamers' curses, or perhaps they had no souls to fear for, but they ploughed forward relentlessly, not letting up until the last of them fell.

But still the Warriors at the walls sang their death-songs, and from where she stood, Braint could not see why. She pelted towards the smithy, thinking to find her father, or failing that, at least a sword. Inside, there was no one, except for a few scattered parts of Efnal, who worked the bellows. He had seemingly been torn apart. Stemming a violent wave of nausea, she forced her warrior's eyes to glance about for a good weapon.

A number of good blades hung from a rack, but each had a bare tang and no handle. The only sword that was whole was the testing blade, notched and partly blunt from where a hundred better blades had struck it and left their mark, but still, it was the right weight, and its metal was as good as any made by their enemies. She grasped it and ran outside, scampering up the conical thatched roof to overlook the battlefield.

What she saw made her sway and nearly fall. The fifty Urk she had first seen were all slain, and the ten or so warriors who had survived and could still limp were dashing as fast as their tired and battered legs could carry them towards the main fray, which came from the western side of the fort. Two hundred Great-Urk were battling with as many warriors. They were formed in a great saw-toothed line; shields locked, pushing forwards and stamping on the fallen warriors with their iron-shod feet.

But what made the tribe's fate inevitable was the hundred mounted men, cloaked in white and bearing spears, who were galloping at the warriors from their left flank, tossing their spears and waving their swords with a great roar of impending victory.

Braint looked about wildly, the feeling of a hook at her stomach tugging so tight now that she was surprised her insides did not burst out. Her breathing came shortly, in gasps of panic.

_Where are our horses? I only see theirs!_

And then she found them, a tumbled mass of bodies, outside the far gap in the palisade, all soaked with blood and with the shafts of spears and lances standing proud from them, the occasional glimpse of their coloured cloaks flapping in the wind or lying blood-weighted over the bodies. The briefest moment of pride welled up through the horror as she realised that the bodies of the Cambriani horsemen were less than half in number than those of the enemy, and that...

_...the faces of all those she knew who would have been in that heroic charge flashed up before her face, smiling and joking, tending to their horses with a care that was so rare amongst the tribesElis would have been there, brave, handsome Elis..._

The grief grabbed at her throat, and she half-slid, half-tumbled her way down the roof, her eyes swimming in hot tears. Her limbs were shaking, and the reality of the situation hit her in one black swoop.

_The Cambriani are no more. _

When she reached the bottom of her slide at the eaves, she stood shakingly, and tried in vain to wipe the tears from her eyes.

She ran forward, towards the house around which the dreamers stood, flinging their final curses before being ridden down by the white-cloaked traitors.

The hundred or so Urk left standing roared their victory, and the shivering desolation of it coursed through Braint on a wave of renewed nausea. The screams she heard now were not warriors', nor hurled challenges and curses, they were the screams of the children and elders as the Urk made a great circle and took their pikes, thrusting them at the screaming crowds as they ran for their lives, and set their ends into the ground, raising their grisly trophies high into the air.

The final blow stopped Braint dead in her tracks, aghast. A crippling shock like an icy spear pierced her heart. Atop one of the pikes raised into the air was a green-clad form so alike to her, except for the hair, which was the colour of dark ox blood. She was dressed to her best - a torc at her neck and a heavy silver bangle around her wrist - in readiness for her sister's homecoming as full Warrior and fourth of the ruling line of the Cambriani...

That sight hung in her mind, as Braint sat sobbing desolately under the blackthorn hedge, the walls of Bree looming darkly through the rain off in the distance. She could not remember fleeing like a kicked hound into the wilds, nor much of what had happened since. It barely mattered.

The first day of autumn dropped its heavy, clinging rain through her muddied cloak, and all she could remember of the time between then and now was when after two days she had returned to lay as many brave warriors as she could upon the death-platforms, so that they might find their way across the river into the care of the Gods and Ancestors, and might never again be disturbed by the grief of this world. Almost everything of value had gone; all the gold, silver, and most of the swords, including that which was hers: the Ancestor-sword borne by her father, that she had last seen being tossed into a sack by a Great-Urk Warlord, his belt pendant with the freshly cut heads of warriors and their families.

_...Lanis' face had been beautiful even in death; no crows seemed to have found her. The birch-bark strip of the Dreamer was at her brow, a slight, knowing smile upon her lips and eyes closed as if in sleep..._

Braint had wept herself hoarse as she had tidied her young sister's hair and drawn in her own warm blood the mark of her Dreaming inside Lanis' forearm, to guide her on her journey to the other side. She had found her father, and her mother, and all three of her brothers and laid their hewn bodies beside Lanis, close in death.

_...and Luain. Never had she had such a task before, but she did the best to make him whole, binding his cloak tight about him, and had lain him by her father; his brother, with his sword and hammer upon his chest, and the head of his killer placed as an offering at his feet, the cut-off pikehead still projecting from the back of its helmet and holding the head within..._

Then she had taken her skinning knife from her belt and pressed its tip between her ribs. She had wanted so badly to die. It was not fair that she be left here all alone, but she could not do it. It was as though the blade would not bite. Was she a coward? Did she have no strength left after carrying so many slain? Did not even the Gods want her any more?

She did not know.

It was the best she could do, and now she must simply ask the Gods to keep their bodies for one year, until their journey was complete and she could burn their bones, and speak their names without fear that they would hear her and turn back out of pity, losing their way. Until then...

Until then.


	3. Chapter 3: Pride and fury

A bedraggled figure shouldered open the heavy door to the Pony; hooded and draped in a torn and sodden brown cloak. Her hands were laden with three brace of rabbits, and two plump pheasants hanging over her shoulder, their necks dangling limply and dripping rainwater. She stamped her feet and pulled back the ragged hood. Beneath was a face that might easily be considered handsome and healthy, were it not for the look of hard-edged misery marring her young features.

She was met by a variety of sullen stares and the guttering light of a dozen oil lamps. Bertram Appledore sat huddled in a corner with his brother and three friends, each of whom wore the special look of resentment that they kept just for her. Braint smiled a humourless smile and kicked the door shut behind her, wiping her feet on the muddy rushes and straightening up.

Bertram had not been able to walk easily since last week - a fact he owed to an ill-judged attempt to woo Braint, given courage by no less than seven flagons of ale. This had not made Braint overly popular within Bree; Bertram and his brother Rowlie were well known and liked through the town, and she was just another 'southron fugitive come up the Greenway' - a grim-faced outsider with a sour humour and a reputation for causing trouble. In fact, the only face inside the Pony who seemed pleased to see her was that of Barliman Butterbur, the balding innkeeper, who bustled over and admired Braint's catch happily.

"Well, you've done me a favour and no mistake Miss Braint! We're fresh out of coneys, and those pheasants'll go down a treat once they've been hung for a week or two. I'll just get Nob to make you up something now..."

He took the game from her and bustled off towards the kitchen, breathing heavily through his mouth and looking furrow-browed at a small slate in his hand, scratching tally marks upon it.

Braint quietly moved to an unobtrusive corner with a brightly burning reed lamp and huddled close to it, allowing the warm fug of the room into her bones. The burning rushlights wavered quietly and she rested her head on her hands.

"Here you go miss. I'm afraid you'll have to move to the ground floor for tonight, we're all full up upstairs."

She snorted awake from her doze as a bowl of steaming soup and a flagon of ale were set upon the table before her with a warm thud, and a small loaf of crusted bread was set down beside it.

Braint nodded her thanks to Barliman, who patted her on the shoulder in a kindly manner. Gods, she would never have allowed that a season ago... especially not from one of the prideless Breeland peasants – but that was stupid. What possible good could come from holding onto old grudges when the world had turned upside down? A friendly hand was a rare thing in this cold new world she found herself in.

The red-faced portly innkeeper gave her an encouraging grin before turning away and calling out for his assistant in a loud voice. No matter the contempt she had for Breelanders, he was a good man.

Braint tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it into the soup, letting the smell of it fill her nose and steal her attention. Chewing slowly, she savoured the mouthful, swallowed and took a swig of ale. Concentrating on the flavours and guessing the ingredients helped. It meant her mind was occupied and not free to wander.

"... all orcs and goblins, said he!"

Braint looked up sharply. The speaker was Rowlie Appledore, brother to the unfortunate Bertram.

"On my honour, last week it was, took that ole Missus what lives out east past Bromley's place. House cleaned out and burned to the ground, an' her an' her son visitin' her, all taken away and eaten up!"

There was a growing whistle in Braint's ears. She felt sick

"Well I never!" interjected Bram Oakley in an angry grumble. "I 'ad the young man muckin' out the pigs fer me last month! Baril were 'is name. Cheery young chap and a good worker to boot. What's the world comin' to, I ask you..."

_Coward. Runaway._

Braint stood up sharply, causing Bram to jump and spill his drink. He gave her an unhappy grumble and looked away. The others glanced at her with mixed looks of suspicion and derision, muttering into their drinks.

Braint's pulse was racing, and the air seemed tight in her throat.

"Where? Where are these goblin? These urk?"

Braint felt her tongue stumble on the harsh-sounding language. She had been being tutored in it until her bleeding came, but she had not enjoyed it overmuch, the time after that had been filled with numerous ceremonies and rites, and so it had been all too easy to let her practice slip.

"What business is it of yours, eh Miss?" asked Bram, giving her a suspicious leer.

"You want them dead? Tell me where they are."

Rowlie laughed.

"You mean ter say that you're going to go and kill 'em all, Miss? Just you by yourself? You'se mad I say. No girl's a match for a band o' goblins, true as it rains in spring!"

Braint's mouth twisted as she bit back an angry retort.

"I asked where they are," snapped Braint, narrowing her eyes at him.

_...not a coward, not a coward..._

Bertram gave a measured sneer and leaned back in his seat airily, adopting a businesslike, mocking tone.

"Well now, gents, it seems what we have here is a genuine firebrand! Thinks she can hunt down a band o' goblins all by 'erself!" He gave a pompous smile, which Braint returned mockingly. "And I think a wager is in order!"

"Hrrr, aye! A wager!" growled Bram appreciatively, banging his mug on the table. Braint gave him a venomous look.

"Now now, Mr. Oakley, let's not be making no silly wagers that'll get the young lass killed! I thought better o' you..." muttered Barliman as he shook his head disapprovingly at the man.

"Hah! A dozen pennies and a drink says she goes and gets hersel' et, and I'll give you good odds on that, mind!" called Bertram.

"For shame, Mister Appledore! Shame on you!" Barliman looked outraged.

"Twenty pennies," Braint cut in.

_Not that it will matter when I am dead..._

Barliman gave an unhappy groan and bustled over to Braint, meaning to discourage her, but before he reached her, Braint had grabbed Bertram's hand and shook it hard.

And so she found herself, six nights later, creeping through the dripping forest, her bare feet padding silently across the wet leaves and mosses. Her skin tingled under the lines of blue woad, black charcoal and grey clay she had painted upon herself, the writhing form of the black dragon grappling its talons with her sky-blue eagle. The gods were watching her, but whether there was approval in their gaze, she could not tell.

Her palms tingled. There was light over the next rise. Gripping the tangled roots with her toes, she climbed the slope silently, ignoring the sting of her scarred heel. She could feel the cold wind raising goose-pimples upon the skin of her bare legs, and sending the loose leather of her belt-cloth flapping. This day she was acting out the plans of the Gods, for good or ill. No Breeland maille would stop the killing blow if she was meant to die, and her minimal armour showed faith and acceptance of their will.

An ugly chattering and rasping laughter rode on the wind, and as Braint grew nearer to the flicker of firelight, she could see the huddled, swarthy figures of half a dozen mountain-goblins biting strips of meat from chunks of stewed bone.

A sentry fiddled with the strap of his crossbow, thinking himself concealed in a tangle of holly. He was not looking in Braint's direction, and she pressed a thumb to her forehead in thanks for it. She changed her course and drew her skinning knife from her belt.

_Twenty paces... ten... five..._

Braint's heart beat so hard in her chest that she was amazed the sentry had not not heard its clatter. It was odd. She had come seeking a good death, but she had rarely been more afraid in her life. Two paces behind, she stopped, adjusting her grip on her knife and feeling cold sweat roll down her back. Her eyes were wide and her tongue moistened her lips nervously.

_Coward! Coward! Coward!_

Achingly long seconds passed, and she did not move. The sentry sneezed and wiped his nose on his arm, leering into the darkness.

Her arms were paralysed by fear, and there was no way out. No way back now. A shivering terror and heart-rending sorrow welled up inside her, so that she was almost ready to drop to her knees and beg the goblin's forgiveness for her intent. An unbearable longing swept through her chest for strong, warm arms to close on her and lead her away; loving hands to give her spiced warm milk; a cheerful, rumbling voice to sing her to sleep by the last embers of the fire. A tear rolled down her face, stingingly cold in the night air, and a tiny, shaking gasp escaped her. The goblin stiffened...

_Never again. All dead._

... and the gods intervened. As the goblin began to turn, a decisive rush of rage took her and her arm darted out like a striking snake, the knife's blade pushed its way fully through the sentry's neck, and trapped the wind in its gullet, so that it could not make its death-cry. Warm, black blood welled up out of the wound and soaked her hand as she twisted the blade and followed the goblin to the ground, ensuring that it did not clatter.

She straddled its chest on the ground and pushed her blade with a slow, dreadful purpose into its heart, allowing no darting scrape that might be heard at the camp. The goblin's beady black eyes fixed on her own, wide with panic and hatred as it clutched at its open throat, mouthing wordlessly as a bubbling flow of black blood flooded its mouth and spilled over onto its face. She stared into its eyes as the squirming ceased, cursing it with all her soul and reveling in the creature's bowel-voiding terror and shock.

_All dead..._

The forest seemed to turn blistering red and she stood, breathing levelly, and looked up at the fire. Starting at a silent stride, she moved towards it, breathing harshly, light-headed with wrath and grief, but as she grew closer caution left her, and she drew her father's notched testing-sword with both hands and let out a wordless roar, her war-cry not finding the names that it so longed to give voice to, but nevertheless seeming to shake the trees to their roots and make the goblins cringe and cower, and sending one of them diving headlong into the fire in shock.

Nothing could stop her. The gritty long blades of the goblins shook in their hands as they madly swung at her, and the pommel of her sword crashed down onto the skull of one, sending it tumbling blank-eyed to the ground with a muffled 'crock'. Her blade whipped around and hissed through the air, barely slowing as it met the stomach of another, unseaming him and spraying his lifeblood over his bewildered and enraged fellows.

Another fell, and another. The slippery woad on her leg turned aside a long knife and her flapping soiled cloak few in the eyes of its wielder, allowing Braint to bring about her blade and behead him.

She was vaguely aware of one of them roaring orders, its voice becoming more and more shrill as its audience was made into a bloody tangle writhing in the mud of the campsite, and when none remained but it alone, she saw it turn tail and run towards the distant rocks, madly throwing its knife at her face.

Dragon-fire burned at her chest as she gave chase, ducking the blade and charging down the goblin with the speed of a wild horse. The goblin's many bangles and heavy helm were making it trip and stumble in the knotted mud and leaves, and a fearful glance over its shoulder caused it to run directly into a blackthorn bush, whose sharp embrace made the little orc squeal and jump back into its pursuer.

Braint rammed it into a tree and knocked it to the ground, where it squirmed, hissing and squealing as she brought the dragon-headed pommel of her sword down into its nose, and then again, and again, and again until the squirming gave way to twitching, and black blood stung in her eyes.

She stood, and brought her sword down once, decisively, removing its head. She stooped to pick it up, but as her heartbeat began to slow and she saw what she was reaching for, the battle-rage left her, and an uncontainable wave of nausea left her, followed by a choking sob and a terrible, crushing loneliness.

The door to the pony barged open once more, causing everyone within to jump and turn their heads. One or two reached for their weapons as the bedraggled figure pushed her way inside, clothing soiled by black blood-stains and reeking, her war paint smudged and blended until her skin looked blue-black and scratched, and her hair hung in a dripping mess about her head.

The Pony's patrons gasped as one, and Bertram Appledore virtually cowered in his corner, his friends and brother visibly edging away from him as it became clear what they were looking at.

Braint walked over to his table and Bram Oakley fell from his stool in an effort to remove himself from the nightmare apparition. She dropped the mangled, pulverised, sodden thing onto the table by its hair and said, in a forceful, frightening voice:

"There. Twenty pennies. Spare the drink, I don't think I could stand the company."

Bertram's mouth flapped, and a brief hint of argument crossed his face. Braint was impressed. She did not think he would have the nerve to argue.

"I... I - I mean to say, how do I know this is..?"

"Because I do not lie," She said flatly, her hand moving almost imperceptibly towards the hilt of her sword.

Bertram hastily looked down and gathered his purse, emptying its contents and looking imploringly at his friends to make up the remainder. They grudgingly did so, and Braint took ten coins directly to the bar and put them down in front of Barliman.

"For the upset, and the mess. I leave here now. Keep well."

Not waiting for a response from the stunned barman, she strode briefly outside and disappeared into the rain, where old Vallan the beggar would awake the next day to find himself, unexplainably, ten coins richer.


	4. Chapter 4: Lost, part 1

The landscape lurched, and Braint stumbled. The grass was muddy and wet, and her cloak was soaked through from the incessant drizzle. As last night's ale came back up, she tried desperately not to let it pass through her nose, but failed. Alrik laughed at her.

"And there I was beginning to think you were not human. You drink like a Larachi, girl."

"I am no Larachi," she replied, trying to clear her nose. Her pride felt futile, considering the state she was in, but she had always despised Larachis.

"I meant it as a compliment. Aodhan and Holda would be upset to hear you take such a tone."

"They are no Larachis either,"

Alrik laughed again, though there was less humour in it this time.

"One day I will guess your tribe, if I have to go through them all."

"What does it matter, anyway? None of us has a tribe any more." She said angrily. "I do not pry into your business, so stop asking about mine."

She spat on the floor and stood up groggily, swigging some water from her flask to stop her head from pounding.

"I would answer you if you did, you know," he replied, in a faintly mocking tone.

"And I will kill you if you do not stop."

He bared his yellow teeth at her.

"Have it your way, then. Can you stand and fight?"

She nodded. "Why?"

"Holda has seen a cart coming. There are barrels on it."

Braint spat on the ground again and began to walk down towards the roadway. The summer had been long and hot, but the weather had turned now and trade had slowed along the Ffordd-Numen, or the Greenway, as the Breelanders called it, though it was never busy, and had not been since the old Numen city of Tharbad had been swallowed by the marshes a hundred years ago. Still, it was land still claimed by the Tribes, and that meant that what she was doing was not an affront to the Gods, though it certainly felt like it.

These were Brigants – outcasts and filth, no-tribes, and when she caught her reflection in the lake as she stooped to drink, she could hardly see any difference between her and them. She did not look her age any more. She had never been strikingly beautiful like her sister, but she had always been pretty, in healthy, slightly boyish way. She was not any more: though she was less than a year into adulthood she looked older: thinner faced, filthy, and her golden torc was gone. She had torn it from her neck and thrown it into a river long ago in despair, and though she had looked for it since, the Gods had accepted the gift, and she would never find it again. She almost began to weep again as she thought of it. Her uncle had made that torc, and when she had gone into the wild for her God-nights, she had dreamt of the great mountain eagle, he had shaped new terminals for it; of her eagle and the dragon that was the mark of the Cambriani tribe and marked her status as daughter of the Haldad of the tribe, though her three brothers were all heirs before her. It was shaped so that when she closed it about her neck the two heads interlocked and bound together. She had been so proud of it: a golden warrior's torc bearing the shapes of the two strongest of spirits, and a design unique among the tribe.

She had meant to wear that torc on her dying day, so that the ancestors would know her when she crossed the river. Without it, she was nothing; worse than nothing. A lowlander at least had enough pride to know what he was, even if it was a peasant serving a long-dead King from a distant land. What was she now? Not even a stray. Brigant – outcast.

She scowled at the grass as she approached the road, and crouched down. The pounding in her head was no better yet, but the dizziness had gone, at least. She crawled forward into position and waited, making sure the rope was taut.

After a few minutes, she could hear the rumbling of the cart and the thudding of hooves as two stout ponies clumped down the wet grass of the roadway. There was cheery conversation coming from the covered cart, and puffs of smoke. That was confusing, but it did not matter; the cart was not on fire. She waited until the wheels drew level with the white quartz marker by the road and tugged hard on the rope. The wooden bars shot up out of the roadway and tangled in the spokes immediately, making the wheels jam and the driver fall forward out of the seat with a yell. Braint sprang up and jogged over to the cart, as Holda, Alrik and Aodhan all approached from the other side of the road with bows bent. The driver was leaning back out over the cart and swearing in confusion, trying to see what had caught in the wheels, but when he caught sight of her, he went white and stared.

"What'sa matter Ham? Branch got snagged in the...?"

Another face was leaning out around the canopy to see, and the man stopped dead as he saw Aodhan moving in front of the ponies. No, not a man: a half-man, like the type that lived in Bree and Staddle.

Braint walked closer. She had not drawn her sword, but she did not need to with the other three's arched bows putting fear into the pair. The driver was old: maybe even sixty years. A shot of leaden guilt sunk through her heart as she looked at him. There was no guard, either. That was worse: it made it feel more like a crime.

"We want not your blood," she said in her heavily accented Westron. "You will give us your silver and your ale, and you will go back the way that you come."

"Gold, she means," said Alrik, showing his yellow teeth in his most charming leer.

"Silver, I mean," she corrected.

The old man gaped at her and then scowled. The half-man looked petrified.

"Bloody thieves!" the old man howled. "What right have you!? What bloody right!?"

"The right of Carrach, the waystones!" Holda said, glaring at the old man with something close to hatred. "You passed them a league back. That means you are in the lands of the Old Gods now, and you made no offering, nor asked no passage!"

"Asked no passage? You bloody mad, you filthy whore? There's no folk what lives 'ere! These is King's lands and they's empty!"

Braint stepped closer, quickly putting herself between Holda's bow and the old man, so that Holda had to move around. He had given Holda the right to kill him by offering such an insult, though he likely did not know it.

"She is right. These were tribe-lands once. That claim has not been forgotten."

"And them tribes is gorn! All buggered off east long ago, din't they? Driven off by the King, bless 'im!" the old man snarled.

"Their ashes and bones are still here, and your King is just as dead as they are. Come now, father. You do not have to die here. Give me your silver and leave the barrels and you may go."

The man bridled, whilst the half-man had barely moved, still sitting bolt upright and shaking.

"I ain't your father, little girl! And if I was, I'd be ashamed of you! I ain't about to be robbed by no child!"

With that, the old man drew a knife from his belt with one hand and lunged to grab her with the other. With snakelike speed, Braint stepped back, drew her sword and slashed in one fluid movement, knocking the knife cleanly out of the old man's hand. She raised her left hand to divert his grasp, but he never even came close: a barbed arrow shot past her shoulder and buried itself in the old man's neck.

"NooOOOOOOO!" came a rising wail from the half-man.

Braint stepped back, eyes wide and mouth open in horror as the little man dropped out of the cart and ran to the gurgling old man. Braint could not say anything. Her heart was hammering, and she felt sick again. The little man began to weep as the elder's breath stopped; howling like a child.

"No, Ham! HAM! You've killed him! You've killed Ham! You _killed_ him!"

Braint opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, Aodhan strode over and kicked the half-man fully in the mouth, knocking him back against the cart and breaking his teeth.

"Stop! STOP!" Braint rushed in and slammed into Aodhan, knocking him off his feet, from where he glared at her and spat on the ground. "What are you doing!?" She shouted, in the tongue of the tribes. "Haven't you done enough? You just killed an elder! Not a guard! Not a man-at arms! AN ELDER!"

"He was attacking," said Holda dismissively.

Braint was breathing heavily, barely able to think. Alrik cursed from the back of the cart.

"This is no ale. It's leaves! Dried leaves!"

Braint looked down at the dead man and felt guilt tighten at her throat. Alrik had moved back to the front of the cart, carrying a firkin with a broken top. He grasped a handful of long dried leaves from it and waved it in the hobbit's face.

"What's this rubbish, little cripple?" he demanded, grabbing at the halfling's blood-soaked collar.

"P-pipe weed. Y-you smoke it! In a p-pipe" he stammered, shaking like a leaf.

"What good is that? Where's your ale? I want your ale!"

"W-wineskins! Under the seat!"

"W-wine, is it?" He slapped the hobbit hard across the face.

"Leave him alone!" Braint yelled furiously.

Alrik looked across at her with contempt on his face, then snatched a leather purse off the hobbit's belt and threw it to her.

"Make yourself useful, girl. Count out the coin." he said, without his usual humour, before turning to ransack the cart. The other two were already rolling the barrels off the road into a pile by the bushes.

Braint's lip quivered and she blinked hard, trying to stop tears of shock rolling down her face. She crouched by the hobbit and gave back the purse.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't want this to happen. I'm sorry."

The little man rolled over, hiding his face from her, and curled up on the ground, weeping and cradling his broken mouth. Braint stood, feeling sick with shame. When the other had emptied the cart, she stooped to lift the old man's body back onto it, but Holda stopped her, leaning in and wrenching the arrow back out of the man's throat with a spurt of blood.

"No need to waste," she said, coldly.

The hobbit had not stopped weeping by the time she had loaded the old man's corpse onto the cart, chanting the prayer for the newly dead under her breath. When she tried to rouse him He simply told her to go away and curled up tighter.

Braint backed away, her heart leaden.

Holda stared at her. The fervent look in her eyes was frightening.

"Feel no pity, Braint. They are on the Gods' lands. This is mercy."


	5. Chapter 5: Lost, part 2

She followed them back to the camp, dragging a net laden with barrels, and said nothing. She would wake early, take her silver and go. She would not have expected such heartlessness from the others, even if they were brigants. They had killed before: she had killed before, but armed men who had drawn first, not disarmed elders.

She sat by the fire that night whilst the meat was cooked; the half-man's basket had been full of choice foods, and the others had become merry on the wine already. She reached out for the skin, hoping to numb her guilt a little. Alrik did not not let the skin go.

"How much coin is there, Braint?"

"None."

"What?" He looked shocked, and angry.

"I gave it back. You had already taken his food, his cargo and his friend."

"You gave it back?" Aodhan asked with quiet incredulity. "Leave the fire. We do not want you here."

She looked at him. He was a tall, broad man, more than twice her age, handsome and as strong as an ox. He had been a warrior as well, once. He had even made himself a new gold torc after his own had been stripped from him, and one for his sister Holda, along with many gaudy arm rings. The Larachis did not seem to understand gold, and wore it to honour themselves, not their ancestors. She did not want to fight him, though. He was too strong, and Holda was at his side, and Alrik at hers. Wordlessly, she got up and left the fire, and went to huddle in her shelter.

_I ain't your father, little girl! And if I was, I'd be ashamed of you!_

'So would mine,' she thought, and she began to weep silently, long into the evening. Only when the sun had fallen did sleep grip her at last. Her dreams were fraught: she was running from the old man as his clawed hand reached out after her, lunging. Her legs were heavy, and she could barely move. She looked down and saw that they were made from solid silver. With each step she took, they sank further into the mud. The old man lunged again, and his withered hand grabbed her arm. She jerked awake.

There _was_ a hand on her arm, and a face inches from hers: Aodhan. He grabbed her other arm and held her down, breathing the stink of wine and halitosis in her face.

"Alrik and I have been wonderin, y-see. We was, we was wondrin'..."

"Let me go!" she cried, angrily, struggling in his grip.

"Shhhhhh!" he hissed, shaking his head drunkenly. "We was wondrin' why you're so uptight, y'see. And then Holda says, hahahaha -" he laughed, " - she says it's 'cause you're a maid. You told 'er, she said. They thought I could help you out with that. What say you?"

Braint panicked... worse than panicked. She writhed on the ground as he leaned in to drool on her neck. She strained with all of her strength to get free, thrashing and twisting, but Aodhan was heavy and far, far too strong.

But he was drunk.

As he reached down to pull up her tunic, he lost his balance for a bare moment and slewed onto his elbow. Braint jerked her head forwards in desperation and felt his nose flatten against her forehead. As he reached up to his face and cried out in anger, she grabbed for her knife with her loose arm...

It wasn't there! He had already take it from her. She butted his face again to make him lean back and writhed with all of her strength, trying to get out from underneath him. She could see the knife, lying on the grass, feet away, but before she could reach it, the world jerked sharply to one side and flickered black for a second before spinning all around her. His fist smashed against her cheek again and again until her head flopped back like a dead fish and her mouth fell open. She was picked up and roughly thrown down on her face in the mud, biting her tongue. Aodhan grabbed her hands behind her back and held them with just one of his own. The world was still rushing past her head and her heart hammering almost faster than it ever had before, but she was sweating like rain from the effort, and as he ripped up the back of her tunic, she managed to slip her left arm free. The knife was right there...

She lunged for it, and grabbed it with her free hand. Gripping it backhand, she urgently thrust the long blade back behind her, and caught him in the thigh. He yelled out and flailed to grab her wrist. She stabbed wildly again and again, hitting his knee; his side; the air... herself.

She screamed again as pain shot through her thigh, but Aodhan had rolled off her, cradling the stab wound in his side. She rolled over and launched herself at him, sinking the knife into the crook of his chest and his shoulder, then pulling it out, failing to duck another blow at her head that made her reel and fall, but panic brought her back upright, slashing left and right across his throat. Blood sprayed across her face, and she barely blinked in time to avoid being blinded.

Her leg was throbbing, and it needed a bandage. She stooped to cut off a sleeve of Aodhan's tunic, but he was still clutching at his throat and choking. She moved her grip and stabbed the knife deep into his eye.

"Na siadh dahin," she snarled and spat upon his face.

It was the worst curse: 'let him drown'. It asked the Gods to make his soul founder as it swam the great black river, so that it would never reach the land beyond, instead being swept out into the current and lost forever.

_...she says it's 'cause you're a maid. You told 'er, she said. _They_ thought I could help you out with that._

Breath shaking, she bound up her leg and stood, wincing at the pain. Nausea kept grabbing at her throat; whether from what had just happened or from being struck near senseless, she did not know. She stood, breathing deeply for long moments to regain her balance. Then, reaching under the shelter, she took her sword belt and bound it about her waist, picked up her shield and drew her sword. Grimly, she limped over to Alrik's shelter and ducked inside. It was dark, but she could see Alrik and Holda lying naked on their bed-skins, dead-drunk and snoring.

Ignoring the pulsing pain in her leg, she kicked Alrik savagely in the ribs.

"Wake up!' she shouted, spitting on him.

He jerked awake, and looked up for a bare second with bleary eyes before her sword split the top of his head in two.

She twisted and wrenched the blade, and Alrik's body thudded back to the ground. Holda gasped and screamed, leaping up and grasping at her axe from the bedside. She swung with drunken rage and grief, and Braint ducked, sending a fresh wave of agony through her leg that made her stagger backwards out of the shelter and almost fall.

Holda kept coming, and Braint swiped her blows aside four times with her shield before one heavy blow made it shatter. Stepping back, Braint swung her arm back and flung the shield boss into Holda's face, lunging forward at he same time, but Holda was already swinging. At the last moment, Braint tried to turn her lunge into a parry and leaned back. The blow that would have buried itself in her shoulder instead slashed down through the soft flesh of her lips and nicked the bone of her chin. The pain was terrible. She staggered back towards the fire, barely managing to block three more blows as her eyes streamed and wanting nothing more than to curl up in agony. The last blow twisted in Holda's hand and landed on Braint's side, where its bite was deflected by a breaking rib. Braint let out a sob and fell back onto her knees, whilst Holda roared with blood-rage and raised the axe again.

_No, she would not die now. Not yet._

Forgetting her pain, Braint launched herself up off the grass and stabbed for Holda's gut. She blocked with the axe haft, but not enough. The blade slipped sideways and sliced a great gash through Holda's waist. The woman screamed and fell to all fours, panting. Braint drew herself agonisingly to her feet, turned and swung the sword down mercilessly through Holda's neck.

The next day dawned red, and Braint could barely move for the pain. She had doused her wounds with hot wine the night before, and tipped the rest down her throat. The cuts were not deep, but neither were they clean. Her face was swollen; her lips split almost through and her rib broken. She had wrapped a bandage about her mouth, but it hurt with every movement.

She had to go. Other brigants would come here to trade sometimes, and she half-remembered that they were next due soon, so she had no time to convalesce. Fever would likely set in soon. She had to go back north. There was a village with a healer half a dozen leagues to the north. She would need to go quickly, though. She could feel the heat in her wounds, and the wrongness of the pain.

She had not noticed how rough the road was before, but now every lump of grass, every turning stone, or bump on the ground sent a shock of pain through her leg and her ribs stung so badly that she had to try not to gasp in pain on each step. Her pace was slowing, and her leg was swelling. She could not stop though, the fever would come soon and she would be lost.

A rumbling...

Fear clutched at her chest in equal measure to hope. The cart was coming the wrong way along the road, but there was no choice. She stood in the middle of the road and waited.

The cart rumbled to a halt half a bowshot away, and she limped towards it, itching to draw her sword, but unwilling. Fear tickled up and down her spine. It was another halfling driving the cart, alone this time. She raised her hands to show that they were empty and drew closer to him.

"Help..." she said. "Please, I need help." Her voice was muffled under the bandage.

"Don't you come any closer!" the halfling demanded, drawing a loaded crossbow out from under the blanket on his knees and quickly scanning the treeline behind her for more. Braint stayed still, keeping her palms towards the tiny man.

"Take that mask off!" he ordered, and braint winced as she pulled the bandage off her mouth, trying not to yelp in pain as the dried blood and pus stuck the cloth to the diagonal slash across her lips.

"I need help," she pleaded, spitting fresh blood. "I am wounded"

"I can see that," said the halfling, nervously. "But I'm heading into the wild, not out,"

"Please, turn around,"" she begged, quietly. "I will die if you do not. Please, I will pay you,"

The hobbit glared, and then slowly shook his head. Braint moved as fast as she could. He had let her come far too close, and she managed to twist and snatch the crossbow out of his hands as the bolt shot into the ground. She threw it onto the ground, whimpering as she felt her wounds opening again from the sudden movement.

The hobbit jerked back out of reach in surprise and fear, and looked over her shoulder imploringly. She whipped around just as a great pink fist cuffed her on the chin with the force of a hammer. The world turned black.


	6. Chapter 6: Found

The dreams were worse this time. The old man turned into Aodhan, who turned into Holda, and then changed into an enormous black-furred bear with terrible scars; a flayed pink face and bloodshot eyes. It sniffed at her, grunting and yammering, and then was gone.

It was dark, and warm, and smelled of sweat and smoke. She could not feel her left hand. She tried to sit up, but a rope was looped loosely over her chest. She began to reach for it, but her hands would not move. She began to panic, and struggled furiously. Daggers of pain stabbed through her ribs and her leg and face, bringing tears to her eyes.

"Do not struggle. You will open your wounds."

She froze. The voice was deep and sonorous; commanding, but not cruel.

She looked across sharply, breathing fast. Her eyes were wide with fear.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. She was in a smallish stone cottage, and an open window showed the faintest trace of dawn in the sky outside. The room was lit only by a low-burnt fire in the hearth, and next to it sat the largest man she had ever seen. He was hooded and cloaked, and sat with lanky legs crossed in front of the fire. She could not make out much else of his clothing, but his silhouette suggested he had both enormous height and great strength. He looked her way, but his face was deeply shadowed.

"What is happening?" she asked, breathlessly. "Why am I tied?"

"Because you are a bandit, are you not?"

"No," she replied, quickly.

"Hmph," the man replied, and slowly unfolded himself from the chair. He stooped and lit a beeswax candle from the hearth, and set it in a rough wooden bowl.

"Who are you?"

"I am Huer, called No-Face," he replied, standing and walking towards her with the light.

"The – the hood?"

The great man laughed, and Braint could almost feel the air in her chest vibrating from the sound of it.

"No," he said simply, and pulled back his hood.

Braint recoiled in horror. Most of his face was made from patches of bare, shiny pink skin, as though he had been flayed long ago, and his right ear was gone entirely, leaving only a small dark hole in the side of his head. Tufts of a wild straggly beard poked out from the few patches of unharmed skin on his chin. Her heart beat like a drumroll as he leaned in close, inspecting her wound, and turning her tear-struck face from side to side between two enormous fingers gripping her chin.

"The stitches have held. You will have a scar, but it will be a little line across your mouth, not a real beauty like mine, I am afraid to say. Though were I you, I would not bite my lip for a time."

"What are you going to do?" she asked, breathless with fear.

"I expect I shall make some breakfast. Are you hungry? I suppose you should be. You have been asleep for a week, after all."

Braint thought carefully. The faceless man was not what she was expecting, but there was an edge to his voice, and she was still helpless. She must choose her words with great care.

"Will you untie me?"

"That depends upon how truthful you are with me, and of course on what the truth is. I can always tell when I am being lied to, and it angers me."

He said it gently enough, but she felt certain that it was true, and that she had no wish to test it.

"I do not lie." she said.

"Maybe not, but that is not the same as telling the truth. You did not lie just now when you said that you are no bandit, but it was not the whole truth. What is, I wonder?"

She looked into his eyes. They frightened her, but not in the way that Aodhan's eyes had.

"Not a bandit," she said quickly. "I took from carters along the road, but only within the Tribelands of old. The guest-laws allow that, if they do not ask entry first – it is sacred ground. They allow much more than taking from them."

"Do they allow you to kill old men and break the teeth of harmless hobbits?"

There was a definite growl in his voice now. A chill of fear shot through Braint's body and she stiffened.

"That was not me. I would not have done that."

Huer considered her, scratching the remnants of his beard.

"Why not, if your laws permit it?"

Braint frowned, shaking slightly.

"It was needless. He was an elder. He was disarmed; not a threat. And the half-man -"

"The hobbit," Huer corrected, calmly.

Braint swallowed.

"He was weeping for his friend. It was honourless to attack him."

"But you watched and did nothing?"

"No! I stopped him! I gave the hobbit back his purse!"

Huer nodded.

"I had hoped that was you. Where are the others, who _did_ do this?"

"Dead. I killed them."

A bud of hope appeared in Braint's heart, but it did not flower yet. Honesty alone could not save her if this man meant to punish her. He looked at her thoughtfully, arms crossed.

"Why?"

Braint hesitated. The memory of Aodhan's foul breath washing over her neck and down the front of her tunic made her feel sick.

"They wanted to... tried to steal my honour. As punishment," a sting of pain shot through her lips as she pursed them, making her gasp.

"Honour can not be stolen. It can only be given away or sold. What did you steal from these traders?"

"Silver," she replied, trying not to let her voice shake. He seemed hardly to blink in all the time he watched her, and never looked away.

"Not gold?"

She shook her head reluctantly. She did not like where this was going.

"Why not?"

Braint pursed her lips, in a scowl this time, and looked away. He had no business to ask.

"I did tell you that what happens to you depends on your honesty, did I not?" he asked, shifting his weight to lean over her with his arms folded.

She glared at him angrily. She was still mortally afraid, but this was not his business. He did not know that though, and there was nothing she could do to thwart him if he wished to harm her.

"I need to make a torc, for my sister."

"A neck ring? Are they not made from gold? Is she an outcast too?"

Braint's eyes eyes flared with anger as she turned back to him.

"I am _not_ an outcast!"

"But she is?"

"NO!" Braint strained at the ropes, red rage in her eyes. Muscled giant or no, she could have throttled him for that suggestion. She longed to tear off the rest of his face. He nodded slightly, and his look was knowing, perhaps even a little sad.

"Perhaps you would explain to me in your own words, since my questions seem to cause you hurt." His voice was calm, but stern.

She tugged at the ropes in frustration, but the pain made her lie back down. She breathed deeply and angrily, though desolate grief was following a hair's breadth behind her fury. It was a long moment before she had calmed enough to speak.

"She is dead. I - cast off my torc. Out of shame, but I am nothing without my torc. A Brigant. No-tribe. No honour. No family. Nothing!" Her eyes burned into him as she spoke, trying to control her breath and her anger.

"You can not make another for yourself?"

"No," she said, bitterly. "A torc is nothing but metal until it is given. It must be given, and then it is real. I... must take back the one I made for her. It was made for a daughter of my mother, my blood is in its weave. It is the only one I can take."

Huer watched her quietly, and gave her a thoughtful look. Her frustration was mounting again. 

"And your sister, would she have been pleased to have a torc made with silver that was stolen from the helpless?"

An icicle stabbed Braint through the heart. She could not breathe or move, so crippling was her grief. She gulped down air in long, pained gasps, closed her eyes tightly and tried to stop her lip from quivering.

_I ain't your father, little girl! And if I was, I'd be ashamed of you!_

Lanis would be ashamed of her too. Sweet, kind little Lanis would have wept if she could have seen what her elder sister had done for her.

Braint covered her face with both hands and wept, not even noticing that the ropes had been cut. Huer waited in silence for a long time after she had curled up. The sky had turned from black, through deep indigo to brilliant enamel blue before he spoke again.

"Mr. Took, the carter, said that one woman shot old Ham, but the other gave him back his purse and offered apology. He hired me to protect his cousin Folco when he sought out the missing cargo. It was very valuable; a special order from the South and a large part of all they owned. Had I not known that you might not be a murderer, I would have let Folco shoot you as you approached the cart. He wanted to, after what was done to poor Joro and Ham."

Braint sniffed and slowly sat up, hanging her legs over the makeshift table-bed. Her hair was a mess and she was still weak enough that her muscles shook from the effort of sitting.

"I will tell you where it is," she said, her voice hoarse and cracking.

Huer nodded in approval.

"And I will give this silver to Ham Carter's family," he replied.

Braint sniffed and nodded, not looking up.

"I suggest you earn your silver in other ways," he said, rather more gently. "Ways that would make your sister proud; not ashamed."

Huer left shortly afterwards, ordering her to eat, wash and rest until she was fully healed before heading back north. As the sun dipped below the horizon again, she slipped into a deep, restful sleep, and dreamed of faceless bears.


	7. Chapter 7: The oldest of enemies, part 1

It was difficult. The Breelanders rarely used coin for their trades, preferring to barter instead, and Braint carried only what she needed. The labour was.. honest, and that was all that could be said for it. Brigants had been travelling up along the Greenway and troubling the folk of Bree, and to them, she was nothing but another dangerous southerner who could not be trusted with any tasks but to lift and carry things that were not valuable or breakable, like horse shit and hay. The labour itself did not hurt her pride, but the reasons for which it was given, and the paltry reward, did. She had collected perhaps enough silver for three strands out of the twenty-seven she would need for the torc, and those strands did not include the terminals. Once the harvests were done, she had to walk the villages to look for work; through Archet, Coombe, Bree and Staddle. It was there she came across something that piqued her interest.

Staddle was an odd place, for many of its people were half-men. The valley floor was built with ordinary houses, but the hillsides were dotted with little round doors and windows, so small that Braint would have had to duck to enter, though there was no chance of her being invited. As she passed, the shutters closed and the folk of Staddle hurried inside. There was a wailing up ahead; a half-woman was weeping outside a broken-down door. There was blood on the step.

A mailled guardsman watched her. He wore a tattered hauberk and carried an antique-looking axe. He and a half-man with a stout stick walked over to her purposefully when she drew close.

"Away with you, Southron! There's been enough trouble here!"

She stood her ground, frowning, but turned her palms towards the guards to show that her hands were empty.

"What trouble?" she asked.

"Away now! I'll not tell you again, you damned savage!"

Braint's expression hardened.

"I wish to help you."

"We don't need help from the likes of you! I warned you, girl!" the guard shouted angrily, wagging his axe near her face threateningly. She stepped inside his guard and snatched the axe under her left arm, pushing him back with her free hand as she did so. The half-man next to him gasped and stepped back, clutching his staff defensively. She held the axe out to him by its head and looked at the reddening guard's face sternly as the confused halfling took the proffered axe helve and passed it back to him.

"Do not wave a blade you do not mean to kill with. I am not here for more 'trouble'. Please tell me what has happened here?"

The guard closed his mouth in stubborn humiliation, so she looked to the hobbit bounder for a response. He looked equally flustered, but a little less angry.

"Goodwife Brockhouse's was broke into, miss. Two Southrons came this morning, dragged off her two lads."

Braint frowned.

"Why?"

The tiny man shrugged. They've been causing trouble, but they ain't said why.

"Where did they go? I mean, the direction?"

The halfling looked at her suspiciously, but she gave him an impatient look and he relented.

"Yon' field," he said, grudgingly.

Braint nodded and set off at a jog, feeling a tingle of excitement at the prospect of a real hunt.

The trail was fairly clear through the field, as though these 'Southrons' had not troubled at all to keep their tracks hidden. She began to suspect that they were not of the tribes – merely from somewhere south – up until the moment she nearly stepped into their first trap. It was well-hidden; a shallow pit trap covered in leaves. Looking more closely, she could see that the clear trail she had been following was deliberate, and followed an open fox-path. The real trail headed through a thicket and rougher, stonier ground.

A challenge...

The need to look for traps slowed her, but in near three hours of tracking through the Chetwood, she did not find another. Her blood was up, and sweat dripped from her nose, but the sun had begun to fall in the sky.

She leapt over a stand of brambles, taking care to land quietly. It was long since she had done this properly. Her eldest brother Tolin had taught her to move through the wild, before and after he died the first time, for he had been Ysbrydhe; a Ghost. She had been so proud when he had been asked to undergo the Rite, at least, she had once she had stopped weeping. For it was an honour given only to those warriors who were more than fearsome – those whom the Gods had given the gift of the shadow. They would be the first over the pallisades in a raid, daubed in clay, lime and charcoal to make them grey spectres of death. They took pride in being able to kill many warriors before the enemy even knew that they were under attack, for their feet were silent and their blades blackened, and though they never wore any armour but their daubed skin and belt-cloths, they were feared even by seasoned warriors in maille, for the Ghosts were already dead.

Much like the Dreamers, the Ghosts would be buried alive and mourned as though they had died, and after three days of mourning, the stamping of feet would summon them forth. If they survived, they would ever after have one foot in the Black River. If they did not, then the tomb was sealed, and their bodies would rot in silence and keep company for the next Dreamer or Ghost-to-be who was sealed inside. Unlike the Dreamers though, their connection to the lands of Death was not meant to usher new life into the world and see off those who had departed, but to walk unseen into the most dangerous of places and leave with fresh blood on their hands. Some even went up into the mountains, to walk into the caves of Shadow beneath, where the Darkfather made his urks to trouble the lands under the sun. Those who returned seemed to have something of the shadow in their blood, and there were no better trackers and hunters in all the world.

Braint could not pretend to be half that good, but Tolin had taught her tricks of stealth and concealment that had seemed like magic when she had tried them on her friends, and though she moved fast through the wilds, her feet made barely a whisper on the leaves.

She ducked under a tall tree of holly, feeling the leaves scratch gently at her shoulder, and a chill gripped her. She dropped to the ground as though she had been clubbed, and so the arrow missed her by the width of a fawn's hair. Frantically, she rolled log-wise three times until she was behind a tree, and flattened herself against the bark. She looked at the grey-fletched arrow, where it had buried itself in a rotten stump. It was near flat to the ground, so it had been shot close and low, and she could see the angle from where it had come. Hastily, she grabbed at her belt for her sling and fitted a stone to it. Stepping back from the tree, she began to whirl it, hearing the air howl through its thongs, before stepping briskly out and releasing. The stone flew from the sling like hail from the sky, and though it did not hit, it made the grey-cloaked archer miss his second shot as he flinched.

Braint ran for him as fast as she could. Some small part of her mind puzzled, for he seemed to be half-buried in the woodland floor, but that did not matter at the moment. She closed the gap with all her speed, and with a swinging kick, she knocked the bow from his hands, leapt over him and rolled, coming up facing his back as he struggled to turn around. She drew her sword and made for him, but before she could close again, a shining, razor-sharp blade had appeared in his hands. It was much longer than her sword, and he was a tall man with a great reach.

And there was no need to risk going too close: he _was_ stuck in the ground. He had fallen into a trap, and he was struggling to pull himself free now, but his long blade was leveled at her, and the look in his eyes said that he knew how to use it. She sheathed her blade and picked up his bow, then jogged to the stump, pulled out his arrow and drew it on him.

He stopped struggling and glared at her from beneath his hood,

"What is keeping you, Dunlending? You have me where you want me. Shoot, and be done with it."

Braint frowned, keeping the arrow aimed at his throat. He had not the look of any folk she knew. He was very tall, and broad in the shoulder, and unkempt dark hair showed under his hood.

"Who are you?"

"It matters not. I am no friend of yours," he replied grimly.

"You are no southron, nor a Breelander," she said, and gestured to his sword. "And that is fine steel. Finer than any I have seen in Bree."

"And no doubt you will take it from my corpse, coward that you are, but do not expect me to lay it down while I live."

"The only cause I have to kill you is that you have called me coward, and shot at me. I did not set that trap."

"Your kind did," he responded, glowering.

"People think they know of my kind. They know nothing. _You_ know nothing, if you think that I am like to those who set it. I came for their blood."

"Am I to trust you then, because your folk have not even the civility to spare each other their predations?"

Braint frowned again. Her commend of Westron was fluent by now, but this man used words that Breelanders did not, and his accent was different: more defined, and less vowelly.

"You are Dunad," she said, in a moment of realisation.

"And what do you know of that?"

"My uncle told me, once, that there are tall folk who hunt through the old King's lands to the north, killing any who try to pass without their leave. They came south sometimes, into my tribe's lands. My uncle won his proudest kill-feather from one."

"Like I said, I am no friend of yours. Now shoot, if you are going to. These barbs in my leg bring me no comfort."

Braint thought. Her uncle would have loosed the arrow now, she knew. Almost any of her people would have; he _had_ shot at her. But she was curious.

"Tell me what you were doing here, and I will decide then whether to shoot you."

He grimaced at her as he shifted his weight.

"Your kinsmen took halflings from Staddle. I sought them out to take them back, and find out why they were taken."

"That is my purpose as well," she said, slowly.

He snorted his disbelief.

"Would you believe it any better if I told you I expected to be paid?" she asked, bristling.

"I would," he replied. "And if that is your purpose, then you have no cause to shoot me, so put down my bow and leave."

"Maybe I have no cause to shoot you, except for the insults that you still offer, but maybe again I can help you."

"I can free myself," he said. His tone was still grim, but a little less hostile. "I have no gold for you."

"I do not want gold. And I am sure you can free yourself, in time, but you will come free quicker with my help, and if I were the one to lay that trap, then I would have poisoned its barbs. They may not have, but then they may. I know a little of the poisons of the tribes, and their cures."

The Ranger eyed her thoughtfully.

"And if you do not want gold, what do you want?"

"I want not to be shot on sight when next I walk outside Bree-land. You say you know my people; you do not. There are many tribes. Some have no honour, some have much. These southrons you seek out are brigants; men who have brought such shame on their tribe that they have been cast out. I am not like them. I have no love for your folk, but I have no hate for them either. If I help you now, I would ask only that you tell your kinsmen not to bother me if they see me in the wilds, since I am up to no mischief."

The man considered, as Braint lowered the bow.

"That may be something I can do, if you truly are up to no mischief. What name shall I give them?"

"Braint, of Cambriani," she replied, laying down the bow.

She approached as he sheathed his sword, though he was still tense, especially as she drew her knife next to his pit. But she paid him no interest, instead pulling back the last of the woven twig trap-door and leaning inside to cut off the barbs and loose the spine-filled funnel-cage that had closed around the ranger's leg. He made not a sound as she did, and earned a measure of her respect. He pulled himself out of the pit and stayed still whilst she held up his foot, cut the bindings of the cage and pulled it apart, then pulled out each of the spines from his leg, and the one that had pierced through his foot. She broke off one that had not struck home and sniffed the black tarry substance on the end.

"Seeth-usgre," she said, looking a little surprised. "Screaming sap. You must be in a lot of pain."

The man did not respond.

"It will not kill you. You must just wait for it to pass. They must be nearby," she said, thoughtfully.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because they expected to be able to hear your screams. If you had cried out, they would have come back to kill you."

The man grunted.

"I will go and find them. You will not be able to stand on that foot until the sap has worn off. May I take your bow?"

The man eyed her with a measure of suspicion. He could not quite seem to believe that she was not one of the brigants, but it was clear he could see no reason why she would have helped him out of the trap if she was. He unslung the quiver from his back and handed it to her wordlessly.

"Will you tell me your name now, Dunad?" she asked him.

"Perhaps, when you return with the halflings."

She laughed quietly, before turning to go. This was becoming an interesting day.


	8. Chapter 8: The oldest of enemies, part 2

She would not have far to go, that much she knew, but the way would be dangerous. The trap that had caught the Dunad was not placed for the clumsy wanderings of Bree-guard, but for an expert tracker who had had the guile to come this close despite the poor trail. She moved slowly, and looked hard at everything, from the scattering of brown leaves on the ground, to the shapes of the branches above, expecting always to find a brigant concealed.

Nothing.

She tested the ground before her with the bow, and twice found trapdoors that way; either woven twigs like the one that had caught the Dunad, or wooden planks covered with soil to fool anyone who avoided the leaves.

She stopped and sniffed. Horse, and smoke. She wet a finger to work out where the smell was coming from, and adjusted her course, walking more quickly now, stepping on roots and stones wherever possible.

Ah, there. A lean-to covered in leaves and bracken, and a feint haze of smoke rising. She crouched, and listened. She could hear two voices, speaking quietly, but only two. She crept closer, moving about so that she could see them all the better.

Two horses were tied to a tree next to the lean-to, and Braint could see the two little men, bound and gagged, leaning against a stack of tuns, and two brigants sitting by a fire. Carefully, she positioned herself behind one end of a ridge, and nocked an arrow. She drew carefully, avoiding the scrape of arrow-on-limb that might give her away, took aim and loosed. The arrow waggled in the air before straightening up and striking home in the belly of the farther brigant. The other, who was facing away from her, cried out and unslung his shield from his back. She crouched. There were only two, so there was no call to charge yet.

Moans were coming from the dell now, as her victim saw his wound realised that he was doomed. The other was shouting curses and threats. He had crouched behind his shield and huddled next to the two petrified halflings, so that she would stand a greater chance of hitting them than him if he shot again.

No, wait... those were not threats he was shouting.

"Dunad! Dunad! Ii Brigantes! Ol na siodd! Nach picen na ol! Nawr!"

Damn it, there must be more nearby. No more time for caution. She hastily looped the bow over her shoulder and moved about, so as to come at the lean-to from the blind side. She went quickly, but every step she took on leaf or soil she had to take twice: the first to check for traps, the second to place her weight. The two men both were howling, and did not know where she was, but if there were reinforcements within earshot, she had no time left. Forgetting caution, she charged forward, dreading with each step to fall into a barbed pit.

She did not, but as she focused on the ground, she did not see the spear coming until it was almost too late. With a frantic slash, she managed to parry it mind-air, diverting it so that the haft bounced off her cheekbone rather than impaling her skull. She staggered and fell, her ears ringing and reeling in pain, but quickly came back to her feet again. The man with the shield had an axe in his hand now, and brandished it with a yell before charging her down.

She hastily drew her skinning knife in her left hand so that she could parry with either, and sidestepped his attack. He was cunning though, for he did not swipe for her body, instead aiming for the long-limbed bow on her back. The axe head caught in it and he yanked her backwards off balance so that she sprawled in the leaf litter. As soon as she hit the ground, she rolled away from him, and felt the earth thud as his counter hit the soil just behind her.

There was a CRACK as the bow-limb split and the string hissed through the air, making her attacker leap back, stung. Braint rolled out of the wreckage and threw off the quiver, since it was useless now. Standing, she flung her knife at his face and immediately charged in after it. The throw forced him to lift his shield and block, allowing her to slash under it at his knee, but the swipe barely striped his leg. He struck out with his shield and Braint rolled away, coming up again feet away. Her face was stinging in agony, and the right side of it felt like it was three times the size it ought to be. Blood washed down from her broken cheek. She was tiring, but he was tiring more quickly. She doubted he had fought a real opponent in some time.

His next charge was his last. She had positioned her feet to make it look like she would leap to the left, but instead jinked right. Her slash caught both the rim of his shield and his skull, and lodged in both. He staggered for a few paces, having his head twisted into painful angles as the weight of the shield dragged his head down. He flailed with his now empty right hand, and actually grabbed at her blade with his bare fingers, all the while making a long, horrifying moan of pain and fear. Braint released her stuck sword and kicked his shield into him, making him flop back onto the leaves. She picked up his fallen axe, stepped forward and swung for his head, mercifully ending his torment. Bile was in her throat.

_Gods, when it is my time, let me die better than that._

She retrieved her sword and knife from the corpse, and quickly hurried over to the lean- to. The wounded man was lying back in white-faced horror, his chin soaked in blood. Guilt racked her. She wondered why the tales never told the little details of battle, how pity sometimes made you forgive your enemy when he was broken; when it was too late to take back the hurt. Or how the stink rose when people died, for it was not just blood that came out of a dying man. She looked down on him in pity and disgust, but did not approach, for he was still armed and alive. She spoke out in the tongue of the hills.

"You are dead, brigant. Put it down and I will send you off quickly and with little pain. You cannot kill me now, and if you did it would not save you if you could. You can only choose to die easily or in torment."

The man coughed blood at her, grey-faced. He spat on the ground before her, but then took his dirk and set it between his own ribs.

"Go honourably, then," she said, thumbing her forehead in salute. He did, and left the glade quiet except for the horrified weeping of the halflings. They both tried to scamper backwards as Braint closed on them, but she did not have time for their nonsense, so the grabbed the closest roughly and hooked his bindings on her sword-blade, slashing through them and smearing the blood of the brigant over the hobbit's hands. She was about to free his feet when there was a shout from behind her.

_Oh hell..._

There were six men along the ridge, each armed with boar-spears and axes or short dirks. Six was too many. Far too many.

They started down the slope towards her, and she quickly picked up the arrow-struck man's shield. It was too heavy and broad, but she suddenly felt very naked. She only hoped that she could make them kill her outright. They were all men - proven honourless men at that - and she did not like the thought of the alternative at all.

They approached with the loose-limbed gait of confident rage, that would soon turn into vicious violence, but before they came close, something happened. The two horses tied to the trees flared their nostrils and went wild, jumping and kicking and dragging at the ropes that tied them. It sent a chill down Braint's spine, and stopped the brigants dead in their tracks. Behind them on the ridge appeared an enormous black shape; a shaggy silhouette of a cave bear, twice the size of a horse, and with a face composed of pink strips of flayed skin.

It roared, and Braint almost lost control of her bladder. The bear from her fever-dreams, was here and real. The men rapidly backed away, but it barrelled towards them and in three great swipes it beheaded two of them and ripped open the chest of a third. Two more stumbled back over their own feet, and heart unfreezing, Braint leapt on the third like a cat as he tried to flee, running him through in one thrust. She turned back to the great bear and backed away, shield raised. The beast had just crushed one man's head like an egg between its jaws, and as the last man got up to flee, it swiped his legs out from under him before pouncing forward with a yammering roar, and crushing him to death beneath its paws. Its nightmare red eyes turned on Braint, and she almost stumbled over herself trying to back away. It advanced, roaring, and bunched itself ready to strike.

"HUER!" she screamed, her voice high and terrified like a little girl's. The bear stopped its swipe, still huffing and roaring, great muscles shivering with pent-up rage and aggression.

"Huer, it is me! Do not kill me! _Please!_"

The great bear shorted and huffed, pacing back and forth as though held by an invisible fence that it longed to break through, fighting to control the fury in its limbs. Braint's heart was beating so fast that she thought it might break with panic. But then, the demon-bear turned back towards the trees and barrelled away at a full run.

Braint stood with her back to the lean-to for many long minutes, waiting for her breath to slow and her heart to stop trying to escape from her chest.

So it was Huer No-Face. Some part of her had known that. But how could a man be a bear as well? It made no sense.

"M-miss?"

Braint jumped. She had almost forgotten that there were two bound halflings right by her side. They were both huddled up in a corner of the lean-to, behind scattered barrels and chests.

She shook her head in stunned disbelief, and turned to them, making them recoil.

"What?" she asked, sounding a little more aggressive than she meant to.

"Err... b-begging your pardon miss, but what's going on?"

She pondered.

"I – am not sure. But I am not going to kill you, if that is what you mean. I came to take you back to Staddle."

The tiny man's look of relief was so comical that Braint could not help but burst out in hysterical laughter. It was not the kind of laughter that had a great deal of mirth in it, but instead the kind that comes after a great shock and a close brush with death. Though pain racked her face from her split cheek, she could not stop. She kept laughing until the laughter turned to tears, and back to laughter again. It was renewed every time she looked at the hobbits, for they were eyeing her as if she were a madwoman. She was not entirely sure that they were wrong. Eventually as the pain flared she managed to hiccup herself into silence, and set about cutting their bonds. One of them turned his face away as she came close, and the wide eyes of the other had her worried.

"Y-your face..." he said, shakingly.

Tentatively, Braint reached up a had and carefully touched her right cheek. It was worse than she had thought. The jolt of pain made all of her muscles quiver and shake, and tears of reflex ruined her vision. Blinking rapidly, she leaned over a water bucket and tried to see her reflection in the dark surface, holding out a hand to stop the drips of blood from rippling the pool. The flesh above her cheekbone was split and torn in three directions. It must have been caught by some knot or rivet on the spear, and probably went to the bone. She could feel her whole skull throbbing. She swore vehemently.

The two hobbits were standing nervously behind her, rubbing their wrists where they had been bound.

"Do not try to leave yet," she told them sternly, wincing. "There are traps, and they are well-hidden."

She broke open and shook the barrels, searching for anything that could be of use. Much of it was food, water and ale, but she found a flask of potent, smelling moonshine, and another of bandages, and stuffed her belt pouch full of them. One small chest contained ingots of iron and copper, and her heart leapt as a small leather sack proved to contain nine finger-length ingots of pure silver. A great weight left her chest, and she almost broke into tears. Finally, she would be able to begin her sister's farewell. The next month would tear at her heart. She would be able to die a Warrior once she had a torc again.

She gathered up all that was of use, and loaded it onto the horses, then salvaged the bowstring and the quiver. The going was slow as they headed back towards where she had left the Ranger. She led the halflings and had not only to clear where she would step, but a wide enough path to account for their bumbling, and for them to lead the horses through as well. With every movement, a jolt of pain shot through the wound on her face, as she held a wad of bandages to it. The beasts were still skittish after their closeness to the Bear and the smell of blood, and Braint did not blame them.

The Dunad was gone when they arrived, though she knew he could not have gone far. Surely enough, her eyes were drawn to a lump of leaves that looked no different from any other, and she waved a gesture to it. The slowly man rose up, making the hobbits fright, and shook the leaves from his cloak. He was using his sheathed longsword as a crutch, and as he hobbled over, Braint crouched, setting about lighting a fire from the broken remnants of the leg-cage. She looked up at the Dunad as he moved close.

"Your bow is broken, but I have brought you a horse, and your half-men if you wished to speak with them."

The ranger said nothing, but he looked at her differently now; with less condescension and suspicion. Perhaps there was even a little concern in his strained eyes.

"Will you tell me your name now, Dunad?" She said, in between blowing on a tinder-bundle, and trying to speak without moving the right side of her face.

"In Breeland, they call me Watcher, but my fellows know me as Beriadan." he replied, somewhat reluctantly.

"Is that your name?" she asked, noting the ambiguity of his words.

"It is enough of a name that my kindred will know you are not false if you speak it," he said, sternly. "You are wounded. What happened at the camp? How many were there?"

"Eight, in all."

"Eight?" Beriadan repeated, looking incredulous.

"There were two at first. I killed them. But six more came. There was... a bear."

"A bear?" he said, frowning. "A bear chased them off?"

"No, it killed them, except for one. That one I killed."

"It's true, sir!" one of the halflings piped up. "There was this great big black thing, and it smashed them all to bits! I reckon it was going to eat us, too, except she... well, she made it go away. Shouted something, and it left."

Beriadan looked as though he was having great trouble believing any of it.

"The bear..." she said, hesitantly. "If I said it was a man as well, a man named Huer, would you think me a fool or a liar?"

A thoughtful look crossed his face.

"No, not if he was of the blood of Grimbeorn. They are a strange and secretive folk. They are skin-changers; both man and bear at once. But I have never heard tell of one in these lands, for their home is in the Vale of Anduin beyond the mountains."

Braint frowned, wondering just how much lore there was in the world that she had never even heard tell of.

"Your wound, it needs to be cleaned, or it may poison your blood," the ranger told her sternly.

"I know," she said. She had hoped to see to the wound when she was alone, so that the ranger would not hear her cry out, but the heat was beginning to set in. His own face was still strained and sweaty, and his movements told her that the screaming sap had not yet worn off in his leg, but he was bearing his pain with a quiet restraint she was sure she could not match.

"The Brigants had poteen. It smells strong enough to stun an ox."

"Then I suggest you drink some, first," he said. "This will hurt."

Beriadan set the halflings - Halfred and Olfred Brockhouse - to about boiling water on the fire as Braint poured near a quarter of the flask down her gullet. The stuff was lethal. It made her mouth burn and her lungs fill with fumes, but the pain in her face felt more distant, and her head swam. She did not want to imagine what it would do on an open wound.

She shortly found out. Despite the roll of leather in her mouth, she almost broke her teeth biting down in an effort not to cry out, and ultimately failed. She had been hurt worse before, but there were splinters and dirt in the wound that Beriadan had to pry out with a heated knife-blade. By the time he was done, nearly the whole of her face was numb from the toxic drink, and her eyes stinging and bloodshot from where it had rolled down, but the bleeding had stopped, and her face was barely swelling under the cobweb stitches and new bandages that crossed it. Her pride was stung most of all; having proven herself to be weaker than the Ranger, and having had to lay her head on his thigh to be treated had been humiliating. Evening was approaching before both of their wounds were attended to, and the hobbits had cooked a stew from the brigants' supplies.

"They had no chance to speak..." Braint was saying. "The one who was left alive was knew he was doomed. There would have been no purpose in questioning him, only cruelty."

"I was listening, miss," Halfred cut in tentatively. "Beg pardon, they didn't speak no proper tongue, but I listened all the same. There was some things they said many a time. It sounded like errr... 'uhr haldid bonn,' 'lowry there', and 'olly theh'."

Braint furrowed her brows as the hobbit blushed.

"Y Haldad bán?" she asked. The little man's face lit up.

"That was it, miss!"

"What does it mean?" asked Beridan, frowning thoughtfully.

"The white Haldad... Haldad is like, king, chieftain, leader. And the rest, they are saying 'down in the south', or 'back south'," she said.

There was a twisting in her gut, and a cold wash of anger and disbelief.

"Who is this white chief?" Beridan asked, grimacing as he tightened a bandage.

"Berkos, Haldad of Torbruggi," she said, spitting on the ground as bitterness wrenched at her face. "Torbruggi colours were once yellow like gorse-flowers, but his people now wear white, that was once the colour of no-tribes. White light breaks into all colours when it shines through quartz or water. To him, it is the colour of unity, of the colours of all tribes. All that have no honour, at least."

She spat on the ground again, and suddenly felt like killing something, despite her condition.

"We have heard a little of tribes uniting. The Rohirrim grow concerned by it."

"They are right to fear. Berkos will attack them when his strength is mustered. But I know not what he would want with halflings from Breeland. If there is sense in that, I can not see it."

She judged from Beriadan's silence that he could not see it either. She would find out though. Whatever Berkos was doing, she would come for him soon.


	9. Chapter 9: The Black River

The moon hung pendant is the hard black sky, its edges sharp, and the mark of the hare upon its surface seeming bright and attentive. Each step that Braint took made her legs shake. She could not be back here... to come back would make it real. It would say that she had once been someone, once been loved, once had a family.

It was easier to pretend that she was nothing but a vagrant hunter, who had never had any pride, but nothing - nothing – would stop her from burning the bones of her friends and family. Whatever pretence she hid behind to live with her shame from day to day, something hard and unmoveable ran beneath. She would perform the ceremony, and she would say her final goodbyes, so that her loved ones could complete their journey to the ancestors, and look down upon her in peace.

The death-platforms stood skeletal and black against the star-strewn sky. She set to work, blindly climbing and fumbling upon the platforms, gathering the bones together and binding them in linen cloth, then carrying them to the pyre, one by one, and arranging the bones upon them.

For each skull there was a torc, except where they had been plundered by orcs. Braint spoke a quick prayer of thanks to the Gods that none had been taken since she had laid the bodies upon the platform. The tribes had proven themselves entirely without honour that day by attacking without warning, shedding the marks of their tribe and by harming elders and children, so Braint had half-feared to find only bones on the platform when she climbed, but whether through fear or shame they had not risked the deadly curse that befell any who would steal from a death platform.

The torcs were each wrought with a metal that spoke of the caste and role that the person best filled: gold for the warrior; red gold for the smiths; bronze for the the makers, the hunters and the farmers, and silver for the Dreamers; the messengers of the gods and gatekeepers between life and death.

And there it was. Her torc. Not the one that had been given to her to mark her standing, but the one she had made, labouring for months, and pouring her very soul into the metal while her uncle and father looked on and guided her. She had hoped to express in craft what she had too few words to say. She had made it for her sister, Lanis, whom she had loved and envied and held in awe. It was the purest and most beautiful thing she had ever made, or ever done. Fitting, for it had taken her years and many false starts to overcome her own ego and learn to love her sister in spite of her insecurities, and that friendship she had forged was the thing she had valued more than anything else in the world.

Its design was not perfect. She could see the flaws now, clearly – a slight unevenness, a dent or scratch, a loose strand of gold. But it was still beautiful and it was unique: silver and reddish gold were twined together, and its terminals overlapped: the head of a golden eagle and a silver hare nestled closely about each other as hounds sleeping before a fire. The two heads were sealed together by a short, thick golden pin whose head made the staggered cross emblem of the sun, and was filled with sky blue coral.

Her eyes were stuck upon it, not daring to move up or down, so only the periphery of her vision took in the pale little skull, or the narrow shoulders that had once been the most important person in the world.

"Sister, blood of my blood. I have come to ask of you a gift. I made you a torc once; a torc made for a daughter of our mother. I meant it to make solid the bond between us; to mix the gold of the warrior, and the silver of the Dreamer. I meant it to put about your neck the hare that guides you, and my eagle that protects you. It was the truest and most sincere thing that I have ever done, though I blushed to present it, I meant it, with all of my heart.

I failed to keep my promise, though. You are dead, and I am alive, for it was you in the battle and I who tried to send your spirit across the River. Forgive me, little sister. It is you who should be mourning me now. I must take back my gift, but I have made you another. Take this torc, my love. It contains my heart. And the rest of me will follow soon."

With that, Braint reached out and pulled out the blue coral pin that bound together the eagle and the hare, and gently unclasped them from one another. Taking care not to disturb the bones, she turned the torc and slipped it off, and set it before her knees. From a belt pouch, she unfolded a square of green velvet and revealed a silver torc of such flawless brilliance that the reflections of the moon hurt her eyes. She had polished it for days, to ensure that not a single blemish was upon it, and stout Nalnain the wandering dwarfish toymaker had helped her, using his Delver arts to smelt and purify the mixed silver of her coins and ingots so that it was as pure and flawless as it was possible for a metal to be.

The moon-torc was made from three times three times three twisted wires of silver, ending in the heads of a silver God-eagle that was Braint's sign, and the usually black dragon of the Cambriani in a brilliant mirror sheen. The two spirits' eyes shined at her in the moonlight as she closed the torc about her sister's neck, and clasped it by pushing in-between the two a broad round pin bearing the emblem of the moon and a little silver hare curled up in sleep upon its surface. As it clicked into place, a tension left her body that had been there for so long that she had stopped noticing its presence.

As dawn drew close, she doused the great pyre with the last of the oil from the carts. It had been a great risk and effort to bring carts laden with wood and oil this far into the hills, but it was necessary, for there were hundreds of souls to send on their way. She had left the hired carters two days back, paying them with the very last of the hoard she had taken from the dead brigants, and brought up the rough, cheap carts one by one with her own horse.

After laying the bag containing Lanis' bones in the very centre of the pyre, she went to the lake and slipped naked into the water, taking with her the twined gold-and-silver torc that was now hers again. The water was black and painfully cold, thick with meltwater from the winter snows, but she walked in up to her chest without hesitation, and cleaned the torc in the moon-kissed waters, though she did not yet put it on, instead laying it on her chest as she floated on the surface, listening to the sounds of the water in her ears.

The sky began to turn a deep blue - the hour of the woad – so she left the water and set about daubing herself in the sky blue pigment, marking the lines of her Dreaming; of her people and her kills, her ancestors and her station. The lines twisted, burled and knotted over near every part of her skin and she felt invulnerable, donned in the armour of the Gods. For the first time, she drew the two curls on her forehead that marked her as Haldad – chieftain of the tribe. The woad made her skin tighten and prickle. It did little for the cold but that did not matter.

It was as well that neither Huer nor Beriadan were here, for the warrior's ceremonial garb was almost nothing; bare-breasted, a sword belt with knee-length suede flaps front and back stitched with the fangs of urk and wolves, and shorter skirts on the sides, light sandals and golden arm bands. Her body did her no shame, for she was in perfect fighting condition – the lithe muscles of speed and long practice rather than the lumpen things made by lifting heavy weights - but she knew that it would have made them uncomfortable to see her like this. She braided and limed her hair, and knotted it behind her head, fixing into the knot the feathers that marked her kills into an elegant quarter-circle fan shape.

Lastly, there was the torc. She tied the horse-mane braid to the terminal rings and hung her two proudest kill-feathers and a holly leaf from it, before opening it and setting it about her neck. It was ice cold and sent a shiver through her skin as she donned it, but as the sky-blue coral-tipped pin clicked home, her skin tingled all over, and a warmth seemed to spread through her. It was not a warmth of the body, for all of her skin was goose-bumped and freezing, but a feeling of rightness; a warmth of the soul.

The sky behind the mountains turned from pale blue to blaze of orange and she stepped forward to light her torch, then waited, with an eye on the tip of the great standing stone at the heart of the ruined compound. A shard of golden dawn touched its tip, and as it moved down to embrace the mark of the dragon carved upon it, she stooped down and set the flames to life. The oil caught and flames billowed in the still morning air, twisting and curling in the new year's sun.

"Another leaf falls in the wind, and blackens upon the ground.

Another soul takes to the current, and strikes for the other side.

As the black leaf fades, a new bud grows, nourished by the lost.

From the near bank I call to you, and shed my final tears."

There ought to have been music, drumming, the stamping of feet; hundreds of people dressed in all their finest woad-lines and spirit-symbols. Instead, there was just her, standing alone and dry-eyed before the biggest pyre that had ever been made upon the hill of Dun Cambrien.

"Walk now with the gods and ancestors, Gwyddhien; mother who gave me life.

Walk now with the spirits, Caradoc; father and teacher.

Tolin, honoured brother, Ghost, find the everlasting hunt.

Donos, brother..."

And so Braint recited the names. It was the first time in a year that she had spoken them aloud, for to do so before would have risked their turning back in their journey out of pity, and becoming lost. But now, as their bones burned, they would be rising out of the River to stand on the far bank and look back. Now, as the ash fell and their torcs to puddles of worthless metal, there was no more danger, for they were gone forever and could not turn back. It took much restraint not to fling herself into the flames as she remembered their faces, but such would be without honour. There was a blood-debt to pay for their loss, and only she yet stood able to collect.

Finally, she spoke the name that broke her heart; the last on a list of hundreds:

"Lanis... Dreamer, sister, whose heart is my heart. Look down upon me now. Help me to find my way to vengeance and when my time is come, guide me to you. I miss you."

Then, she bowed her head and wept.

She might have imagined it, but after a time, a tingle brushed against the numb, cold skin of her back, almost as though someone had laid a hand there. She almost did not dare to look around, because to see nothing would be too much. But there was something there, for a bare moment in the murky half-light of the shadowed ridge, something bobbed away in the long grass. She could scarce see anything except for an impression of movement, but later, no power under the sun would convince her that it had not been a black hare.


	10. Chapter 10: Hunters

Something was moving in the bushes behind. It was not a loud sound, or something that she could be sure of; just the slight tightening of the skin across her back and an involuntary twitch in her ears. She did not react immediately, but took another couple of cat-pawed paces forwards through the moonlit undergrowth. Focused on some imaginary prey, she moved her right hand down to pull a thorny bramble out of her path and at the same time smoothly unhooked the strip of hide that held her skinning knife in its doeskin sheath. She knew someone had been tracking her since she had moved deeper into the foothills yesterday. There was not much she could do if a bow was being aimed at her, but the feint smell of lime and animal grease had tickled her nose twice today, and those who hunted so daubed oft moved alone, and did not use bows.

She crouched slowly, staring hard at a point of nothing, and tugged the slingshot loose from her belt, making a subtle play of fumbling for a slingstone in the shot-pouch and making her apparent distraction the fool's-bait.

_There!_

A little '_hush_' of leaves crushed under pouncing feet from behind her and she rose up, spinning about with knife in hand, and stabbed forward. Her left hand knocked aside a knife that had been turned back towards its wielder, ready to cut her throat, and the right closely missed stabbing her attacker in his shoulder as he stepped back with a snakish grace, letting her blade hiss past and stab the night air. Wrong-footed, Braint ducked a swing clumsily and was glad to have done so; the knife she had knocked from the painted man's hand was bound by a cord to his wrist and so he had trapped it against his thigh and snatched it up again only moments after having it knocked from his grip.

He was good, and her immediate counterattack bit the air again as he leapt back out of its way and for a moment they circled, each glaring with predatory eyes – neither was the victim here. He was ghosted; his wiry body covered in clay, grease, ash and white lime. His eyes and cheekbones were lined to make his face a grinning skull, and his hair spiked upright to make him taller and more fearsome. She slowly stood a little taller, lowering her blade until it pointed to the woodland floor.

_Breath steady; eyes calm._

With a banshee wail he leapt at her and almost immediately sprang backwards again, predicting her trick-strike and seeking to take her off balance as she lunged. But her strike did not come, and she did not move until he was on the back-foot of his leap, when she darted forwards under his guard with heart-stopping suddenness, slashing diagonally down and feeling her blade scrape across temple, cheekbone, tooth and chin. He bawled in pain and choked, staggering backwards with his left hand covering the hideous wound on his face. Blood streamed down his arm and his left eye was pinched shut but his right still watched her, creased in pain, and his blade was still raised defensively. She could still die upon it if she let arrogance lead her feet.

So she did not. She let him stagger backwards, suppressing whimpers and gasps, then reached again for her sling, fitting a stone to it with a far more fluid ease than she had before. He had no choice now. Unless he closed the distance, he was dead, but when he did, she was ready and he was distracted. Ignoring a moment's admiration for his tenacity and dropping the sling, she stepped neatly aside, ducked under his striking arm with the fluid grace of a dancer and backhand stabbed beneath his shoulder-blade as he staggered past. He collapsed against the tree trunk, lounging like a wounded lion. The power and grace were gone from his limbs now and blood bubbled in his breath. She crouched down to wipe her knife on a mossy root, and then looked up and stared into his eyes as he began to cough.

His body relaxed a little into the curve of the trees, shivering, and it was clear that he was not a man but a youth, perhaps no more than a week past his initiation. Were it not for the gash on his face he would have been beautiful; square-jawed, lithe and muscled like a dancer, but she looked at his handsome, boyish face and found that she was unmoved. She should have felt sympathy for him, and there was a time when she would have felt sick with guilt, but now she could not even muster the decency to feel shame at killing someone who was not long out of childhood. There was a white Torbruggi serpent-mark upon his chest that made her muscles burn with quiet fury. He had meant to kill her, and he had lost.

"You fought well," she said shortly. And it was true; had she not heard his approach, the fight might have gone either way. "I would not like to meet the man who taught you. But a true Ghost can see into an enemy, and know when she is tricking him, and when she is double-tricking him too. My elder brother knew that. Perhaps he will tell you when you cross the river."

The boy looked at her, some of the pain fading from his face. He was beyond speech now; his left lung was full of froth, but he had not looked away.

Braint looked down at the leaves for a moment, spinning her knife on its tip against the root.

"I respect your skill. It is a pity that it was wasted on a Torbruggi."

She gestured towards the limed pattern on his chest, marking him as one of her most hated enemies.

"I would tell you to walk proudly to the ancestors, but your soul should linger for a time first – you are too young to have been at my village that day, but you are an ally of orcs, and you do the bidding of men who are worse. You should witness what that truly means before you go to the ancestors; see the kind of men and beasts you have sworn your blood-oaths to and when you do you will hang your head in shame. Perhaps the ancestors will forgive you. I can not."

She stood, and his eyes lazily followed her, his body convulsed twice as he coughed roughly. She walked over to him and crouched down, and her hand was ready to catch his as he played his last trick and tried to stab her in the neck. She twisted the knife from his grip and quickly thrust her own up to its hilt into his heart.

After a few moments of seizure, Braint was alone again. She hummed a chant for the departing dead as she gently closed his eyes. Mercy, at least, does not require forgiveness. 


	11. Chapter 11: Rohan

Too many of them... and they were coming too fast. Braint bolted from cover to cover as the arrows zipped past, but she could not hide from horse archers, who were faster and more mobile. Her veins pumped acid as she threw herself up the rockface. An arrow shattered right by her head and the sound made her ear ring.

With a grunt of terrified effort she pulled herself up on the clifftop and crouched, running away from it, but she could hear the hooves hammering the ground behind her as the pursuers wheeled around and headed further down the cliff where it flattened into the plain. She knew she had only moments, and the arrows were still whistling past her head. Gods, she could not keep this up for long. She was in the peak of fighting condition, but she had not slept for two nights, and outrunning horses meant never taking the easy path. She was nearly spent, whilst her pursuers were barely warming to the stride.

Ahead, a little stream had carved a gully in the rocks, and there, after it tumbled over boulders into a deep pool was a deep gap... it was almost narrow enough to jump across, and no horse could cross it. Desperately, she turned for it and began to sprint, ignoring the air that tasted of blood ripping at her throat, or the quivering of exhaustion in her limbs.

_Ten paces... five paces..._

Aaargh!

With a cry and a whimper she tumbled and fell, striking her cheek hard on a rock amongst the rough grass. The arrow had not struck her but slashed across her ankle on the way past. It did not feel like a grave wound, but it had been enough to topple her and now she was dazed and had no strength to get back to her feet. She lay panting on the stone and heard the hooves clatter across the rocks, then the clinking thuds of a dozen men dismounting.

A quick stride and then a crushing pain as an armoured boot caught her on the side under the ribs.

Harsh voices called out in the old tongue of the north. She did not understand what was being said, but its meaning was clear enough as mailled hands dragged her roughly off the ground and stripped her of her weapons, before administering a cursory beating and roughly tying her hands behind her back.

Her head spun, and she barely supported her weight as she was held upright by her bound hands, straining hard on her shoulders.

The voice sounded again, speaking long sentences. She tried to focus. There was a Forgoil officer standing there, glaring at her with unsympathetic eyes. A younger man next to him looked at him as he spoke, then as he stopped, began to speak slowly and haltingly in the tongue of the Tribes.

"Who … you are … name and... what...?"

Still panting, and trying to ignore the pain and exhaustion from every part of her body, Braint looked up at him and spoke in clear, if accented, Westron.

"I speak – the plains tongue well enough. Ask your questions in that if – you... know it also."

The Captain stepped forward and gripped her jaw, holding her face up to look into his own.

"Who are you, and what business have you in the Mark?"

Taking deep breaths, Braint tried to recover some strength. Though she knew this would not end well for her – or they would not have started shooting before seeking to arrest her – her limbs were glad that they were no longer running.

"I am - Braint of Cambriani. And I am tracking my enemies. I know you will... not believe me, but we - are on the same side."

One of the men behind spat upon the ground. The Captain looked into her eyes.

"You are a Dunlending wilder. We are not on the same side."

Braint had regained some of her breath now, and she stood a little straighter.

"We are not allies. That does not mean we are... not on the same side. Your enemies are my enemies, even if you are not my friend."

"Ignore her riddles, Captain," said the man who had spat on the ground. "She is a savage and a spy, abroad in the King's lands without his leave. That is enough to convict her, even had she not killed our scouts."

"That is true," said the Captain. "Well, what have you to say, savage?"

Braint knew then she was lost. It was in his tone and his eye.

"Only that I am not your enemy, and I did not kill your scouts. That was the work of those I was tracking. I swear on the blood of my ancestors that I speak no lies."

The Captain shook his head, sadly. She could see in his face the expression of one whose task is plain, even if he finds it distasteful.

"The penalty for spying is clear. Damn the wildmen for sending their women out to die in the Mark. Make peace with your Gods, girl."

And that was it. There was nothing she could do... what a waste. She had scarce achieved any kind of revenge, and now that death finally came, she was surprised to know just how much she was afraid, having been sure that she had given up on life long ago.

She gasped as he laid a palm across her mouth and almost tenderly pushed back her chin to expose her throat. Try as she might, she could not stop a tear rolling down onto his hand. She was too dazed to feel shame, though her heart now hammered again as though trying to beat a lifetime's pulses in the scarce moments it had left.

"Orcs! Orcs! Make ready!"

The captain let go of Braint's chin and whipped about. She gasped again, taking deep breaths and looking about with wide eyes.

A horseless scout had emerged from behind the cliff and was running up the hill. He looked dog-tired, and tight on his heels were dozens of great black shapes in clanking armour. The horsemen were trapped. The rocks about lent no escape and the ground was too rough to fight on horseback. That was why she had run here, after all.

The captain yelled out loud: "Shield wall!", then with a look of betrayed hatred at Braint he barked again "Kill the spy!", before running forward to lock his shields with his comrades.

One of the two Rohirrim left began to draw his sword and step in, as the one holding Braint tensed his grip on her arms. But then, something happened.

The sight of the Great-Urk as they cut down the fleeing scout, and the sweetness of the air as the last moments of her life were extended gave her a new wave of energy: furious, wild, and riding on fear and hatred. She kicked against the ground and planted her forehead squarely on the nose of the rider who was drawing his sword, then pushed back against the man holding her to throw him off balance. She raised her heel hard and heard the groan as it caught the guard behind between his legs.

Twisting about, she fell on the Forgoil guard's dropped sword with her bound hands as it cut her finger, but she managed to turn the blade against the ropes and grind them along the edge. Pausing only to kick the face of the staggering guard as he lunged towards her, she jerked at the frayed ropes, desperately loosening them until she could slip a wrist free. Struggling to her feet, she took up her sword and shield, which had been cast upon the ground, ran towards the shield wall and barged against the Captain, locking her shield with his as the wall braced for the Uruk charge.

There was a moment – only the faintest of moments - where he glanced across at her in shocked amazement, but then there was no time, as brutal carnage ensued. The uruks were twice the number of the Forgoil, and the glee of battle was in them. The wall shook and staggered as the great orcs smashed against it. Three times, Braint half-feigned weakness, staggering back as if defeated from the end of the wall and allowing an uruk to step in to flank the captain. Each time she waited until it was readying its attack against him and darted in with her sword, finding the weak points on the back of its armour and puncturing the organs within.

The battle was short and fierce, for the Rohirrim fought as cornered wolves and the uruks brought their fearless hateful fury to the fray, but before long only Braint and the Captain stood against three great orcs as they huffed and snarled menacingly, moving about to encircle them. One of them laughed and made a move towards the few remaining horses, which circled their fallen masters, kicking and whinnying.

"No!"

But it was too late; the Captain broke away from Braint, charging to intercept the orc, and its fellow slashed down across his leg and hamstrung him. Braint darted after it and laid open the side of its neck, but the captain was down, and now two great-Urk stood against Braint alone, grinning evilly as they tried again to encircle her.

The one in front stepped towards the Captain, who was growling in pain upon the ground, but Braint was not about to fall for the same ruse. She turned and slashed out at the other orc, making it step back unsteadily from the unexpected swing, and then she followed in with a shield bash, causing it to stagger back towards one of the horses. There was a whinny and a 'crock' as the stallion's rear legs lashed out, and the orc's helm sailed over Braint's head as black blood speckled her face.

The last orc roared anger at her and closed in. It did not seem to have tired at all, and Braint's shield shattered under its first blow, sending a hard shock through the bones of her arm. She barely ducked the second swipe in time, and her muscles cried out in torment as she forced them into one last effort of sheer will, standing with a rising slash that severed the beast's sword arm. It crashed down onto a fallen Rohirrim shield with a thump as the orc howled in pain and anger.

But it was not done yet. Its great, long fingered left hand darted out and grabbed Braint around the throat, squeezing hard and choking all the air out of her. With urgent desperation she hammered at its hand with her pommel then wildly slashed at its head, but its arm was too long, and with a rough shake, it made her stagger so that her wrist hit its elbow and the swing and sword were lost, clattering to the ground and leaving her disarmed.

Straining backward, she slipped and fell, desperately kicking at it to loosen the iron death-grip about her throat, but nothing worked. Mindlessly, she scrabbled about on the ground as the bleeding orc dragged itself closer, waving the stump of its arm and opening its jaws ready to bite her face. Hot, foul breath washed over her as her ears rang and vision tuned black, but her hand found something metal, and she blindly swung it at the thing's arm. She felt it bite home, two, three times but the grip did not loosen. In the barest, last moment, she swung again: a flailing, unguided blow led by blinded eyes and breathless lungs.

Air rasped into her chest: the sweetest and purest sensation she could remember. She took a few long moments simply gasping and breathing before she squirmed out from under the dead orc. She stared at it for long moments before pushing at it weakly, trying to turn it over. It took several attempts, but the slope of the hill helped. Half-falling onto its chest, she wrenched her skinning knife out from its eye socket and beat at its gums with the pommel until one long yellow fang came loose. Gripping at it with bloody fingers she managed to work it loose, though her muscles felt as frail and clumsy as those of a newborn foal.

A sound made her look up. Two men were sitting up and moaning, and the captain was looking at her, pale-faced and clutching at his leg. She scrambled over to him and knelt weakly there, knife in hand.

As he looked at her, and it was plain from his eyes that he did not know what to expect.

"All I need do is pick up a spear, kill you and your men and I can leave on one of your horses. You understand this?" she asked, not taking her eyes from him. He did not answer.

She reached to her belt and unfastened her waterskin, then took a long pull at it and handed it to him. He took it, with suspicion.

"If I help to bind the wounds of your men, will I regret it? Will you try to kill me again, or arrest me?"

He looked at her longer this time, wincing in pain as blood tricked from the gash on his leg. He shook his head.

"I choose to believe that you are not honourless men. So I will help. And then I will go, and you will not follow me."

Besides the three who could sit, three more Forgoil were still alive, though had they been Cambriani, Braint would have given two of them the mercy of her knife. One more had been hit on the head and would recover if the bite on his thigh did not fester. None could walk, but that was their problem. Braint left them before the sun had set, taking a pack of provisions and heading upstream. As she looked about on the rich land of long grasses, sheltered copses and crystalline streams, she felt a dark and quiet rage that made her almost regret helping the damned Forgoil. This land was scattered with the ashes of her ancestors, and she could feel its pull on her heart. The wild-flowers bobbed and swayed at her in a dozen beautiful colours; the air was clear and pure, and the plains broad. If Berkos had never been born or had had the good grace to choke on his mother's teat, it might be her grandfather now who united the tribes, and she might one day have been sister to the King of all Calenardhon, or even Haldad herself. These lands would be hers...

She shook her head.

_My grandfather would never have allied with Urk. Not if it made him King of all the lands. Not if it made the Old Forests grow back and the Gods walk the land again, never would he do such a thing._

She looked back north, knowing that far yonder at the feet of the mountains her enemy waited for her, unwitting.

_Gods, give me vengeance and a good death, that I may swim the Blacktide and hold my family again. That is all I ask._


	12. Chapter 12: The road goes ever on and on

Bare feet pounded the wet earth in perfect time; a slow, steady beat. Two voices sang a beautiful but sad harmony that welled tears of loss and of hope in the eyes of most who were gathered. A great slab of bluestone stood alone upon the hill, and upon it a board, made from smoothed, pale planks of holly, upon which lay the form of a young woman.

Her face was serene and pale, bedded upon hair the deep, bloody red of new leaves upon the copper beech, and she seemed aflame in the last rays of the sun, as she sank beneath the western horizon. Slowly, the last day of winter died and the flame-gold about her face faded to nothing. The song fell and the beating stopped. All was silent, save the distant twittering of a lark high above.

Slowly, and with utmost dignity, two figures approached the slab. From the west came a man, a grandfather of so many years that his eyes were milked over and stared at nothing, but his cane of yew felt the way before him. The feathers of a crow stood black upon the pale wisps of his hair, seeming to suck away the light that fell upon them. About his neck was a simple band of silver, ringed at its terminals, catching the misty twilight and seeming to shine.

From the East came a girl, barely past being a child. She wore a leaf-green tunic and an elegant, plaited torc, whose ends formed the twined heads of a golden eagle and a silver hare. Her hair was so deep a red as to be almost black in the falling twilight, and her eyes were a haunting, pale grey. The two came together at the slab and stopped by the shrouded form, wrapped about in white linen.

Together, they spoke in verse, each speaking one line. The man's aged voice was cracked but clear in the dead silence; and then the girl, her sweet voice high, silky and musical.

May the trees and grass remember you, when the living do not.

May the stones recall, though they crumble to sand,

the heart that loved; the voice that sang;

The soul ensconced like burning brand.

Another leaf that falls gently from the branch,

that a new bud may spring and the tree thrive,

shaped by things past and gone.

May it remember you, until the mountains fall

So cross you now the river black,

and do not falter in your stroke

Our tears shall feed the sapling grass;

an early dew before the dawn.

The words rang in Braint's mind as she woke, and her throat was tight. Dawn had come, and the trees about belled with birdsong, but she wished only to sleep again, and remember. It had been the day that Nemma, Turgha's daughter, had been sealed inside the barrow to make her a Dreamer – two days before the attack. Braint had checked the tomb when she had returned to the ruins of Dun Cambrien. It was open, though she dared not go inside. She wondered if it had been opened by looters, or by Nemma. What must she have thought, the new Dreamer, to have spent three nights dreaming among the dead, and then to emerge into the sunlight, only to find that this world was dead, too. She shuddered. Nemma had always been strange, and people said that she was mad. If she was not before, then she would have been when she emerged from the tomb. There was no sign of her, though. Either she had slain herself, or wandered off into the wild, not to be heard of again.

Braint rubbed her eyes and crouched by the fire pit. She threw some more tinder onto the embers and hung her boiling pot over the new flames, before scanning the treeline. Yes, that bracken had not been bent over last night. She threw a few lumps of last night's pheasant and roasted tubers into the pot.

"There is enough to share, though I doubt it would fill you," she said to the trees.

"You have good eyes," Huer said as he emerged from the undergrowth.

"It was a guess," she replied. "And a safe one. Had I been wrong, no one would have known."

Huer laughed and came to crouch by the fire.

"You have been away from these lands these past few moons," he stated. It was not a question.

"Have you been following me?" Braint asked, frowning slightly. "Or do I have a distinctive smell?"

"Only when you have been running. No, but Nalnain the toymaker is a friend of mine. He said you have an un-mannish talent for silversmithing, and that you meant to head back towards the hills." He eyed the torc about her neck. "I know little of such arts, but to my old eyes it would seem he was right."

Braint stirred the food and tossed half a handful of fragrant herbs into the pot.

"I went farther than that, all the way into the horse-plains. They did not welcome me there."

Huer chuckled. "No, I expect they did not. Their horses fright if I ever go that way. Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Some of it. Their attack will come before next summer, I expect. They have planted heavily this year, and such a harvest cannot be left to children and elders to reap. They may attack once the harvest is ended, but there are many ceremonies at that time of year. Fighting is best done in the spring and summer."

"And what do you mean to do?" Huer asked.

"Watch, and wait. I am alone in this. I do not know how I will ever come close to my enemy, but I will find a way."

"You seem determined to seek your death," he said, frowning.

"It is not _my_ death I am seeking. But I am willing to die to kill him." Braint returned Huer's frown, stirring the food and adding water.

"Hmph," he said, taking hold of whatever doubts he harboured. "Do not take your life so lightly, little one. Vengeance, yes... some people are better off dead. You are not one of them, I think."

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Braint was angry, but touched as well. Especially considering the circumstances under which she and Huer had first met.

"You are a bear," she said, bluntly. "How? The Dreamers say we all have some part of an animal's ghost inside us. But that was not a ghost I saw tearing down five men in the Chetwood."

Huer shrugged and grunted.

"It is the way with my kin. Perhaps the animal ghost is simply closer to the surface. Perhaps we are to bears as the great eagles are to men."

"What do you mean?" Braint asked, frowning in confusion and interest.

"I am a man with a bear inside me, and the eagles are birds with men inside them, or at least spirits like those of men - though they can not change their shape as I can. I am more bear than they are man, mayhap."

"The God Eagles..."

Huer laughed, cutting her off.

"God Eagles, aye, they would like that."

"They are one of the great spirits," Braint told him, frowning defensively and glaring. She hooked a thumb under the eagle terminal on her torc. "They are my sign."

Huer grinned. It was a frightening sight, even part-obscured under his hood. His shadowed eyes took in her hawkish glare and prickly, slightly fragile grace.

"Whoever gave you that sign had keen senses."

She shook her head.

"They are not given. You go into the wild, somewhere the Gods are strong, and they find you. It is there all along, but the sacred powders and the chants make you see."

"The eagles are not gods, girl. Great spirits, perhaps. Even they themselves would not say they are gods."

"You have spoken with them?" The old stories spoke of dreamers and great warriors who conversed with the eagles, but she had only half-believed it, at best. As for what Huer was saying... what is a God if not the spirit of something? Eagles were spirits of the air.

"I have had words with one or two. My folk sometimes go to the mountains to hunt orc or keep the paths clear. We and the eagles leave one another alone most of the time, but the eagles sometimes think it is good sport to watch us hunting them and catch the stragglers, so they come and tell us where they are. It is an old and odd tongue, spoken without lips, but there are words in it, for sure."

Braint tried to hide her look of awe, turning to the stew instead and moving it off the heat. Huer helped himself to some stew and looked at her, and it was hard to tell his expression from the mangled mess of his face.

"You should come into the mountains one day. I will show you the eagles up close, and you can help in the hunt."

Braint knew what he was trying to do, though the idea sounded wonderfully appealing.

"I can not forget my task."

"I would not ask you to. But I would say that you should not lose hope of living afterwards. There is much that you can do in life."

"Hope taunts. All those things I once hoped for are gone. I can not take a man for my own, as all of the tribes are my enemies now. I can not hope to have and raise children if there are no Dreamers to perform the rites of their birth and passage. I am alone, Huer." 

"Truly?" he said, gruffly. "So were a fellow to pass by your camp, would he see but one person by this fire?"

Braint did not know what to say to that. She blushed, and drank some stew, though it was too hot to do so.

"It is not - "

"And if that same fellow were to pass by when you go to take your vengeance on this traitor of yours, he will not see only one person then, unless you are more stubborn and foolish than I think you are."

Huer stood, swigging the last of his stew in one scalding gulp.

"Huer, I - "

"You should not call yourself alone simply because you cannot see who is beside you. There are many good folk who would help you in your goal, little Eagle. I suggest that you find them and ask their help before you go. Go back to Bree, or to the plains West, or to the lone lands, and look for trustworthy folk who will help a just cause. Go to the Rangers, even. You know one of them, do you not? Your life is worth more than you know, girl. Do not be in such a hurry to throw it away."

Braint's mouth was flapping as she struggled to find something to say, but Huer simply bowed with a 'hrmph', and strode off into the trees. 


	13. Chapter 13: The lost boy

"Wulf na'r hwy. Amis yn siodd dda nach ddrabh"

Braint froze. That tongue should not sound in these lands – not within the walls of Bree, at least. Frowning, she continued to stare at the whetstone she had been examining, though her attention was thoroughly diverted. Out of the corners of her eyes, she sought out the sound. Four men were near the square, levering open crates and leaning in to talk.

"All righ'... leave yer bloody rat talk so's I can understand," grumbled one of them. The taller of the other three grinned at him expansively, showing broken and yellowed teeth. Braint did not catch his response. Edging closer, she made a play of examining a number of rough cloaks hanging at the far end of the merchant's stall.

Three of them... aye three of the Tribes, though the amount of gaudy, poorly-worked gold worn by two of the three showed that they were filth out of Larach. The third was younger, tight-lipped and straight faced. The fourth man... he was a Breelander – she had seen him often in the Pony, back when she had lodged there. Fernley or somesuch.

She leaned in behind the cloaks, listening. Snatches of conversation drifted through, though they were troubling to keep quiet.

"...new port in Tharbad..." "...working well, be glad that..." "... better not tell the boss... got his schemes..." "...not what Amis said..."

"Lovely cloth, aren't they?", chirped a cheerful voice near Braint's elbow.

"What?" Braint looked around, frowning irritably. The half-woman merchant was grinning up at her, apparently taking her lingering by the cloaks as a sign of a potential sale.

"Finest wool. Keep out the rain and the cold if you looks after it right! My neffyew Halfred makes 'em, got a farm out Staddle way. There a colour you was looking for my dear?"

"No. I have a cloak already. I am only looking," Braint frowned, wishing the little woman would go away, but the men had stopped talking already.

"Hah! I thought I heard a fair voice among these peasant rumbles. You should buy the blue one, my dear, to match your eyes!"

Braint turned. The yellow-toothed Larachi was beaming at her, having moved to stand in front of the stall. The other two tribesmen flanked him, making a triangle. For all the joviality in his voice, Braint recognised the formation of three thorns: the basic unit of attack and defence. It was among the first things that children of the tribes would learn if they were to be warriors.

Braint said nothing. As the man beamed, she could see that his teeth were yellow because three of them were made from gold.

"But come now, you look so sour, pretty girl! Have I spoken above my station?" The man eyed the torc that wound itself about Braint's neck. It was of far better make and taste than anything he wore, though his arms jangled as he waved them, so laden were they with gold.

"What do you want me to say? Your greeting is not of the proper form. I have no response."

The man laughed, loudly and insincerely.

"Forgive me, little princess! I am but a rough Larachi! I forget the old ways and my manners! Hail! I am Daltann of Larach Dunhann, and I bear no blade against you!"

Daltann raised his thumb to his forehead in a mockery of the ancestors' salute, then bowed deeply after the manner of the lowlanders, grinning all the while. A calculated insult wrapped in nicety. Braint spared him barely a nod.

"Now who forgets their manners, little princess? Not good enough for you, am I? No, no, of course. What highlander would have time for a humble Larachi? Too busy kissing the feet of your old women and catching the dribble as they spout their fairy-tales."

The man was still grinning. People had stopped to watch, and mothers hurried their children inside. Five guardsmen began to walk forwards, gripping their spears and shields anew. Braint calmly reached across and rested her hand on the pommel of her sword.

"Do you want to die, Daltann of Larach? Surely when you forgot your manners you forget that we 'highlanders' do not let such insults pass. Apologise, or draw, now that I have reminded you of the law."

"The law?" Daltann scoffed. "You speak of law, do you? Wives' tales and the harping of old men and crones! Look about you if you seek the law! We are in Bree now, a civilised place, and I am the honoured guest of our friend here. The _law _says that it is you who is wrong if you draw that sword, you pompous little harlot. Here, I speak my mind. Here, I am a man of business, better than you, for all your royal torc. No, I'll not apologise. And I'll not draw either. If you're so eager to see blood, little girl, my guards will oblige, but out in the open, not here, where the law binds us all."

He spat on the ground. His two guards straightened. One of them was looking at Braint with the expression of a hound pulling at the collar, whilst the other glared fixedly at the ground in front of her, frowning deeply.

Braint's skin tingled. This man hated her as much as she him, even though he did not know who she was. It was etched across his face, and from the lumpen gold bands about his arm to the over-large torc and the malicious arrogance in his eyes: here was a worthless man who had chosen spite over wisdom. Not a brigant, perhaps, but the worst kind of Larachi – descendant of one who had returned there from Tharbad of old, having lost the old ways and gained a taste for gold and crime. Since the sinking of Tharbad, Larach Dunhann had become the festering wound of the Tribelands, where men were thought better than women and the young and strong better than the old and wise. That was why Aodhan and his sister had thought that Braint had needed to be put in her place last year. The putrefaction had spread to other duns, but never far enough north for Braint to have seen it first-hand.

She looked at Daltann with utmost contempt.

"You would hand your blood-debt over to others? You are an honourless snake and a coward, Daltann. I'll see you dead."

"Not 'ere you won't, miss!"

Six spears were levelled at Braint. The Bree guardsmen were scarce better than a militia, but there were five of them. Besides, Braint had no desire to kill Breelanders. Whether they remembered them or not, the Guest-laws forbade killing in the lands of an ally without sanction or threat. She looked about the guardsmen. Their faces held various shades of anger, fear and discomfort.

"Can you not see this man is a coward and a troublemaker? See him out of the gates, and I'll take our quarrel elsewhere," she said, scowling.

"That's as may be, miss, but we've orders. And you's the one with your hand on yer sword. Now take your trouble out of Bree! We've no want of it 'ere!", said the guard captain, sternly.

Braint glared.

"Very well. I'll kill your guards elsewhere if you are not man enough to fight your own battles, Daltann. Perhaps you will remember your insults to me when you walk back to your pus-ridden wound of a Dun unguarded. I will look for you, Larachi dog!", she snarled.

Daltann spat again on the floor.

"Look for my arse, little girl! Careful not to kill her afore you've had some fun, boys. Pretty little thing like that: shame to waste it!"

The guardsmen looked disgusted, and Ferny chuckled. Daltann's guards stepped forward and gestured towards the gate. Braint turned, muscles quivering as she longed to slash at Daltann's face. That would have to wait.

Out through the gates they went, each walking a distance from the other, in line, so none were behind and none were ahead. Once they had passed the bounds of the village, they stopped. An ancient ancestor-stone stood tall and shapeless, its meaning forgotten by the descendants who lived here now. Braint thumbed her forehead in its direction, and turned to the two guards. The taller one leered.

"I'm going to fuck you bloody, girl," he told her. Braint looked him up and down, sour-faced.

"So now you will both attack me at once, no doubt, if you are half as cowardly as your master," she said, venom seeping from every word.

"No."

The younger of the two guards spoke, glaring at the ground with a screwed up face. The other looked at him with contempt.

"What did you say, boy?"

"I said no. I'll not fight her. I'll not rape her. There is no honour in this."

"You'll do as you're damn well told, boy!"

"No."

The older guard spat at him.

"Fine! More for me!"

Braint glanced between them, then turned to the older guard. She drew her sword and spoke aloud, in the ancient tongue of the hills:

"Gods, Ancestors, witness this..."

A knife whirred through the air towards her, hurled snakelike by the guard as she spoke the ritual. She had been expecting it, though, and a lazy flick of her shield swiped it out of the air. The man looked taken aback, but Braint continued to speak:

"An insult has been made. A debt has been called. It will be paid with blood."

Snarling, the guard charged. Braint lightly deflected his first and second crushing attacks with her shield, then rammed it forwards, causing him to stagger back and trip. Stepping back, she took up the Guard of the Wildcat, hiding her sword behind her shield, and bending her knees ready to react or pounce. Fury was in her blood, but there she let it pump and drive, yet not control. It gave her energy, and not rage.

She stepped in, teasing him, and making him jump back. He dived forwards, seeking to get behind her, but he was too slow, and she pivoted about her shield, turning close in behind him and landing a heavy pommel strike onto his collarbone. There was a crack and a wail and he staggered forwards, dropping his sword. Quickly, she stepped in after him and swiped across his hamstrings with the tip of her sword. He howled with pain and dropped to the ground, trying to twist around and swing his shield at her wildly. She raised her own up above her and let his pass, tucking in her belly to avoid it. Then she slammed the rim of her shield back down into his face, splitting an eyebrow and flattening his nose with a wet crunch.

He fell onto his back with a choked 'hnrgh' sound and a whimpering sob, which quickly became a gurgle as his throat filled with blood. Braint felt slightly sick. It seemed that no matter how often it happened, she could not become used to the nauseous grab to the stomach that came with dealing a messy wound to defeated and pathetic enemy, no matter how vile he had been. A man's tear-streaked face in pain and terror was a pitiful sight whether he was enemy or no, and the quick jab to the heart she dealt to end his misery felt more like washing away something indecent and shameful than a moment of glory. She thumbed her forehead to the standing stone, then took a moment to let the memory of his dying moments ungrip her throat before speaking again:

"The Ancestors choose the victor. This debt is settled."

She looked up. The boy was still frowning, though he raised his thumb to his forehead in a salute, before looking away in shame.

"Forgive me. I was paid to guard; not to sell my honour."

"Did you swear to serve?" Braint asked, moving closer, and wiping the blood from her sword with a handful of damp grass and moss as her heart began to slow again.

"No, I made no oath, only took coin that I would not starve," he replied.

"Then you did not sell your honour, and if you were paid, then you did not do this for a matter of tribe. You are no Larachi. What is your name and your people?"

The boy looked ashamed, keeping his eyes low, but spoke clearly.

"I am Doubak, of no-tribe. I bear no blade against you."

"No-tribe?" repeated Braint. "You do not seem like a Brigant."

The young man flushed, but looked her in the eyes for the first time.

"No Brigant. I was not expelled from my tribe. They are dead, and I was too young to know of them"

Something cold seemed to trickle down Braint's back. Her expression softened and her heart skipped a beat.

"Ancestors keep them. It seems they taught you honour before they crossed the river at the least. You know nothing of them? Truly?"

"No words, only faces and feelings. There is this, but the Larachis forget the old ways; they did not know what it meant..." He pulled back his sleeve, showing there a mark upon his forearm of a crescent moon, a star and a bird.

Braint gave a half-smile.

"Then you are Doubak of the Huronni," she said, gently.

"You know it?!" Doubak exclaimed, excitement and hope in his voice.

"That mark was carved upon the Gods' Gate and in the Greathouse, put there when some girl of the Huronni married into our line generations ago. I do not remember much of your tales, but they speak of your ancestor Hurodd ap Hywel, and his three daughters Riordda, Angharad and Cailin. They were powerful Dreamers, whose signs were the new moon, the pole-star and the wren. Proud signs; wear them with pride."

Doubak knelt in gratitude. Bowing his head and thumbing his forehead. After a time, he stood and spoke again:

"Forgive me. I do not know who you are."

"I am Braint of Cambriani. I bear no arms against you."

Doubak furrowed his brow.

"I had heard that the Cambriani had been destroyed."

Braint looked away. An unexpected knot tied in her throat and it was hard to speak. She had never before heard sympathy spoken in the tongue of the Hills, except by her own kin. Not for her, at least.

"They stand with the Huronni now, on the Far Bank. All but me."

Doubak bowed his head.

"Ancestors keep them. I am sorry."

Braint looked back.

"Be sorry only for what you have done, and this deed you did not do. No, keep your condolences and keep your honour. Take this purse and be free of that dog Daltann. I must go now to cut him off before he escapes, if that is his plan. I have many questions for you, though, Doubak of Huronni. Do not go far."

"And I you, Braint of Cambriani. I will lodge in Chetwood. Look for me there, and Ancestors bless your step. I will not forget this."

Taking the heavy purse, Doubak knelt again, and with a thumb to her forehead, Braint turned to go.


	14. Chapter 14: Urgent news

Daltann was more difficult to track than she had expected. Normally, Larachis were better at finding their way to the bottom of a flagon than through the woods, but this one had guile. He had left from the west gate of Bree, and made that way until she had lost sight of him. It had taken her an hour of scouring the sides of the road to see where he had turned aside, curling north through stonier ground. The signs were faint; little pebbles with their damp side up upon the rocks, or a little white scuff where a hobnail had scratched the rock. Donos had taught her the art well, but she did not yet have his Ghost's eyes, and several times she lost the trail for hours at a time, only to find that it eventually curved back into Bree, where he had tried to buy a horse, but since the raid upon the inn two months ago, there were scarce any horses to be had in Bree. That much was fortunate.

As she left Bree by the south gate, the snow began to fall again, thick and heavy. She sped her pace, wrapping herself thickly in the black and blue plaid woolen cloak she had woven for herself in the autumn. The snow would be a gift if it stopped soon, but the clouds were heavy laden, and they would more likely hide Daltann's passing than make him leave footprints at this rate. She wrapped her cloak around her and began to move at a slow run. Dangerous, because it would make her sweat, but necessary if she wished to catch her prey. She had his trail, but it was already hours old.

As she pressed on, the snow fell more and more heavily, and the light began to fade. She cursed under her breath, realising that she had lost the trail. No use, now. Time to find shelter and wait for morning. She went into the woods and found a bough of pine that had hung low over the ground, weighted with snow. She checked inside for wolves and found none, so she set her pack upon the ground and went about kindling a fire from wet pine. She did not let it burn for long, since the smoke would give her away if the night cleared up. Instead, she emptied one of her waterskins into the copper boiling pot and waited for the bubbles. When they started rolling up the sides of the bowl, she carefully tipped it back into the skin and corked it before stuffing it down between her legs and wincing at the heat as it warmed her blood. She quickly cooked a few morsels in the embers before dousing them with snow and covering the fire pit back over. The night did become cold and clear, so she slept huddled under as many pine branches as she could find, curled in her thick cloak and hugging the warm bottle to her chest.

She was up at the next dawn, hearing the howling of wolves far off. Her only hope of catching Daltann was to move quickly towards the tribelands and wait, so she left the wilds and made for the road. It was hard going, and she wondered several times why she bothered to pursue this man so, but he had told his men to rape and kill her. She could not let such a thing pass. She could not quite remember the flaring anger she had felt at the time, but she knew that it had been his intention to anger her, taunt her and then have her dishonoured and slain. If Doubak had not shown himself to be better than that, then she might well have been. It takes a great deal of skill to fight against two men at once and live, and even then the way to do it is to try to force them to come one at a time, or to be getting in the way of one another. A properly-trained shield pair, though, was usually too much for a lone warrior, almost regardless of their skill. If she could allow such a thing to pass then she was no only no warrior, but no Haldad and no woman. Other tribes at the least respected that a woman could be as dangerous a warrior as a man, but the Larachis thought of their women as painted things to tupp and rule, and trade between their friends.

Braint stopped. There was shouting ahead on the road. She began to run, staying close to the verge and crouched low. There was a cart there, stopped in the road but headed north, and next to it was...

_Hah! You damned fool. You are making this too easy!_

She dropped her pack and moved closer, skirting off the road to come at Daltann from behind. He was threatening the driver, demanding that he give up his cart. Moving into position, Braint unlooped her sling from her belt and set a stone in the cradle. She was standing ready to whirl it about when something happened: Daltann took his axe from his belt and made to leap up onto the cart, but something small and black shot out of the cart, and burst at his feet with a flaring gout of flame that swept up over him and set his cloak ablaze. The stone thudded to the ground from her sling as Braint fumbled in shock. Daltann staggered back, screaming, and Braint fitted another stone, whirled, and loosed. It was a good shot – it sailed through the air and clubbed the burning man over the head, so that he fell into a pile of snow.

Standing, Braint raised a hand above her head and emerged from the trees cautiously. She did not know by what device the carter had set Daltann on fire, but she did know that she had no desire to follow suit.

"Peace, carter! Do not attack! I am no bandit"

A black shape climbed down out of the cart, carrying a long, harpoon-like spear, much like those used for fishing in the tribes. He wore a long, ragged black cloak with a fur hem, and his clothing was decorated with broken pieces of deer antler.

"What you want, woman?" She shape asked, in a gruff and accented tongue.

With her left hand, she pointed to the smoking body on the ground.

"I was hunting him. I need to see he is dead."

The man laughed blackly, but kept his spear raised.

"This man is short of friends, I think!"

"This man deserved no friends," she replied, moving warily towards Daltann's body. She was far from sure about this strange man, but she had promised to see Daltann dead, and she meant to. She did not draw her knife until she was upon him, in case the carter thought she meant to attack him instead. Daltann's eyes were rolled back and skin scorched, but he had only burned for a few moments, and he was still shaking and still alive.

"Na siadh dahin!" She snarled, as her knife dipped down and came up red. She wiped it on Daltann's cloak and sheathed it again, before turning to the carter and approaching slowly, with her arms wide and hands empty.

"The woman looks like the man. Same clothes, same metals," the carter said, looking her over.

"Different colours. Different tribe," she replied. "I am Braint, of Cambriani. I bear no blade against you."

"I am Talthur, of Suuri-Hemma, I bear no blade, but spear maybe. Depends on the woman now."

"Suuri-Hemma?" Braint frowned, puzzled. "What people is that?"

"North people. Far north people, people of the snow."

Braint had never heard of such a folk, but this man was clearly no Breelander.

"What did he want, this man?"

"This man wants my cart, to take it South again, but I am going North. I tell him no, he says 'yes' and then he is catching fire." There was a grim laugh from the man.

"How did you do that?" Braint asked, frowning.

"Special magic! This man has his ways, and he has learned more ways from the folk of the south. See!"

With that, the man strode back to his cart and came back with a little fish-shaped pot of dry red clay. A rag was tied about it, which he lit in one strike of a flint. The rag guttered with a hot oil-flame, and he tossed the jar hard against a rock by the road. Braint stepped back in wonder as a great spray of blue-white flame burst out of the shattering pot. The man laughed at her wide eyes.

"It is a good way to keep the cart safe. Good for arguments with angry men." he said, smirking.

Braint nodded, quietly.

"You go back to Bree?"

The man nodded.

"May I come in your cart? It is a long walk through the snow."

The man looked her over thoughtfully, then nodded. Braint suggested that he search Daltann's body while she went for her pack. She might have finished him off, but she had not defeated him and so had no right to his belongings. Talthur seemed pleased by the weight of gold he had off the man, and became cheerful as they climbed back aboard the cart. It was an odd contraption that Talthur had made himself, for the covered wagon had not only an awning but a covered compartment something like a tent at its fore, with a little pot-stove set in it, and seats lined with thick grey deer fur. He had made it like a sled of his people, he told her, though he then had to explain what that meant. Once the flaps were rolled down, it became warm and cosy inside, and allowed the little man to boil water and make a strange, pungent drink made from water, spices and melted deer fat that returned all the feeling to Braint's toes.

It took a little less than a day to travel back to Bree, and the man was as interesting as he was odd to her; unlike anything she had seen in these lands before, and with good reason: the men of the far north rarely left their snow-bound bays, but they had long ago harboured a King of the Numen from the south, and so they had sometimes had contact with that folk and learned much from them. When their Dreamers – shamen, they called them, were initiated, they had to go and find something useful for their clan. Usually it was some piece of wisdom from a vision or a prophecy, but the young Talthur had been intrigued by the references to Naurnen in the old tales from the time of the King. It was an oil, they had said, that was used sometimes to make the water burn so that enemy ships could be sunk. He had taken it upon himself to the far south and discover more, for fire was sacred in the north. He had been to the Kingdom of Gondor and learned much in the way of fire-craft and the making of things that burned, bringing his own knowledge of the odd powders and fumes that were made by the bubbling pools of his homeland, and adding it to the lore of the south. Their war had become too dangerous, though, and necessitated his return by land. He boasted that he knew more about fire than any shaman before him, and this would win him great renown with his people.

Braint told him a little of her own tale; enough to make him angry. The snow-folk did not do such things, he said. It was hard enough for them to live peacefully when the land was such a danger itself, never mind the orcs and trolls and creeping things from the mountains to the east. To fight between clans was foolish, especially to kill children and mothers of a struggling people. Braint was inclined to agree.

The snow had stopped as they grew close to Bree, and as they rolled through the slushy streets, the wet cold seemed to creep in again. She had barely stepped out of the cart, though, before someone rushed at her. She half-turned and began to draw her sword, but then she saw that it was Doubak. His face was red with exertion, and it was clear that he had just run after her from some distance.

"Braint! Haldad! I have news for you! News of your people!"


	15. Chapter 15: Payment in kind

Braint looked up at the body, swinging gently in the breeze. The sun was setting over the sea beyond – a sight that Braint had never seen - and yet the enormity of the ocean stretching away to the sunset went ignored. A quiet, blood-red rage settled itself slowly into her muscles, seeping into her like a snake's poison. Doubak had been right; she knew this man – thought he was barely old enough to be called such. His corn blonde hair was rare among the tribes, and she remembered him as a child: the son of one of the better leather-makers among her people. What was his name?

She had not known him well – he was a year or three younger than her, and after she had picked out her honour guard from amongst her friends she had paid less attention to the younger children who had chosen the path of the warrior.

A silhouette approached from the gates of the fishing town, walking in the middle of the road, past the guards' guttering torches and out into the closing night. He drew level with where Braint was hiding, turned, and then slunk down into the gully next to her. Braint tore her gaze away from the hanging boy.

"It is as your scout said, woman," came the man's voice. "The boy was called Cumal. He was hanged for killing a man, and there is another in the cells, a girl, who will be hanged at summer's end when she turns sixteen."

Braint scowled.

"Sixteen?"

"Aye," replied Talthur. "When she is a woman."

Braint shook her head.

"She is already a woman, by the Ancestors' laws. What of the others?"

"The others... it is difficult to find out, even with coin, but they are in the orphanage, I believe, watched close now. That is where your boy Cumal did his murder, and I would guess they fear the others will take it into their heads to try the same."

Braint nodded. So sixteen was their age of Passing, and Cumal had killed a man in an orphanage? Braint suspected she knew what had happened. Plains folk simply did not understand the pride and importance of the Old Ways. But that did not matter now. They had killed him, and they meant to kill this girl as well. They had spilled Cambriani blood – Braint's blood. Until she had heard Doubak's news, she had not even believed that there was any blood left to spill from her people, but now she knew: she was not alone. There was a bare handful of living souls left upon this earth, and with that fact came the faintest of hopes: the thinnest of chances for a future in which Cambriani would not be a mere name lost in history. But these... these _bastards_ had killed one of them, and hung his body from a gibbet as a warning. They would pay.

She took a moment to unclench her jaw and flush the hot fury from her voice.

"I - thank you. Have you the pots prepared?"

"I have," replied Talthur.

From his pack he drew six clay jars: four were small, unfired things of hard but brittle clay with a rag wrapped about them, and two were large and ringed with holed near the top. He tapped one of the smaller jars and nodded.

"These will burst with a fierce flame, and these..." he tapped one of the large, holed jars, which made a soft, half-hollow sound. "Drop a taper in these and much smoke will come out, for a long time"

Braint nodded. She stopped and turned to the others, outlining her plan.

Then, she went to the river and tossed three heavy silver coins into it, where the moonlight touched the water. She stripped then and took from her packs her three pots of paint, over which she had chanted as she ground and mixed the pigment. Dipping her fingers, she set about garbing herself for war, making of herself a terrifying visage with blue woad, grey clay, white lime and black charcoal in stripes, swirls, zig-zags and the shape of an eagle as an emblem. When she was done, she fixed her leather loin-skirt about her waist, tossed the coil of rope over her shoulder and tied her boots, then returned to the nook by the road. Doubak had done the same – he did not know the ancestor lines of his people, but Braint had told him that they had gone garbed in green and black, and had helped him to mix the paint, so he had invented his own lines, and now he bore a mask of death. She did not recognise him any more, and she was proud. They were no longer merely warriors, but ghosted fiends: the kind of creatures about whom Rohirrim mothers would scare their children with horror tales.

The rage stirred in Braint's blood. The moon was high. The price would be paid.

Taking the smouldering bracket fungus from Talthur and breaking it in two, she handed half to Doubak, and they set off, each creeping along an opposite verge of the road, lost in the deepening grey shadows.

They reached the rough wooden wall together, and Doubak made a cradle of his linked hands. Braint ran at him silently, and as she stepped up and leapt, he launched her up into the air. She hit the spiked wooden pallisade with a soft thump, then looked along the wall for guards. When she saw none, she pulled herself up and over. Without a whisper of sound, she unslung the rope from her shoulder and dropped the noose end over one of the spikes. Moments later, Doubak had joined her, and they let themselves down the other side.

Drawing her long knife, Braint gently lifted the latch, opened the door and stepped inside. A young guardsman stared at her in horror, dropping his tankard of soup onto the ground where it shattered. With three quick paces she closed the distance and sent his sword flying as he desperately tried to draw it. Two deft movements, and she had knocked him off balance and had him bent backwards over her knee, ready to die.

"No! Please!"

Braint hesitated. He was looking at her in utter horror, as though a demon had crept out of his nightmares into the waking world, and his britches were dripping. Reversing her knife, she brought the the butt of it about and struck him hard across the head.

"Here, what's..."

There was a tumbling sound as the other guardsman dropped to the floorboards in the inner doorway, felled by a lump of firewood in Doubak's hands. They shared a glance, and seemed to reach an agreement, wordlessly. Blowing on the bracket fungus embers, they lit the binding rags of the small jars, and Braint hurled hers at the wall above the tangled bedding in the corner, whilst Doubak threw his up the ladder, through the hatchway to the floor above.

Talthur's skill was as good as his word: the jars exploded in a fierce spitting gout of blue-white fire, instantly catching on the hangings and bedskins and lighting the building with a 'whoomph'. Gripping their respective guardsmen under the armpits, Braint and Doubak dragged them backwards out of the door and hid them under the eaves of a nearby stone cottage, giving each a kick in the head for good measure. Smoke had already begun to pour out of the shutters on the guardhouse.

Looking up, they turned and bolted for the large stone building at the far side of the town. It did not look much like a prison, and that was because it was not: merely a town meeting house, with a makeshift watch-house built on later. There was one guard on the door, slouching at his post and leaning on his spear. As Braint and Doubak crept closer he stood up straight, and they both stopped dead. He had not seen them, though: a cry had gone up - someone had noticed the guardhouse ablaze and called out. Using his distraction, Braint dashed forward and slammed his head into the wall. He dropped like water, and Doubak set about dragging him out of the pool of light as Braint checked the door. It was barred from the inside.

She cursed inwardly, but moments later, she heard urgent footsteps approaching from inside the building and the bar being raised. As it opened, she charged forward and toppled the guard back inside the building. He was too shocked to cry out, but another man's voice did as they tumbled inside. Braint drew her long knife again and quickly tucked its razor tip into the nape of the man's neck, just barely piercing the skin. The voice cried out again, this time in panic. Braint's man was lying back in terror, his eyes wide and his hands raised and open in submission, but another, older man was standing behind a table laden with half-eaten food, gripping an axe in shaking hands, and staring at Braint in tensed horror and anger. In a cell behind him, a red-headed girl sat up straight in her bed.

"L-let him go!" the older guard cried, swallowing hard.

"Put down your weapon," she replied. Her voice was not loud, but it carried a dreadful authority. It sounded cruel; evil even.

"Let him go I said!"

Braint's knife tip bit deeper into the guard's neck: not yet enough to kill, but easily enough to suggest that this would be the next step.

"No, no! Stop!" cried out the man, dropping his axe as though it had burned him. "Who are you?"

Braint withdrew her dagger and took her knee off the guard's chest, rolling him over, and keeping her eyes on the other man. She set about binding his hands with a sword belt she tugged from its peg on the wall. Doubak closed and barred the door behind them.

"I am Braint of Cambriani. You have killed my kinsman."

She advanced on him, knife in hand. With her body and face painted and her hair limed and braided, she looked like some primitive terror out of a folk tale, and the rage still coursed through her blood from seeing Cumal's hanged body: it seemed to saturate the air about her. She _wanted_ to kill someone, and at the moment she did not much care who. The man took two steps back from her, defiant terror lining his face. The guard must have been more than twice Braint's age, but he was not a warrior, merely a strong man who was used to keeping drunks in order and turning away beggars at the gates. Every line of his face said that he was far out of his depth, though there was anger there too: he was not a coward.

"The savage boy? He was a murderer!"

Braint continued to step closer, her eyes narrowed and predatory. The red-headed girl stood in her cell and quietly held the bars, watching.

"He was a captive. Call us 'savage' again, if you dare," Braint retorted.

"He killed a good man!" Protested the guard.

"Maybe," said Braint. "A life for a life. What then should I do about her?"

She gestured with her blade to the red-headed girl in the cell, who was looking at them both with a furrowed brow and a pale face.

"She helped him!"

"And you held them against their will. If she is to hang then your town owes me a life. I have been merciful so far: none have died. So the choice is yours: the key, or your life."

She was still advancing.

"You don't scare me, girl!"

"Yes I do," she stated, bluntly. The man was brave, but he was terrified. It came off him in waves.

His hand shot for his belt, and then she was on him. His knife spun away as he tried to draw it and clattered on the floor. She struck him twice, hard, with her pommel, then kicked viciously at the back of his legs, and he was on his knees. Braint stood behind him with fingers in his hair and her knife at his throat. The other guard groaned in panic as Doubak leaned on his bound arms to stop him rising.

"Do not be a fool!" said Braint, losing her composure a little. "Do not make me choose between my kin and you, because I will not hesitate to bleed you dry!"

"Just tell her, Da!" cried the other guard. He was weeping, and Braint's rage faltered. The elder guardsman scowled at her.

"You let my boy go and I'll tell you where the keys are!" he snarled.

"No. No one is leaving until my kin are free. I won't hurt your boy if he does not try to fight, but these are my people. I will not leave them to die here, and if I let him go, then he will raise the guard and there will be blood. Believe me when I say that we will not sell our lives cheaply."

"I'll tell you nothing until my boy is safe," he replied, scowling.

Braint's mouth twisted and she tightened her grip on his hair, and smashed his head into the table, hard. His nose crunched flat.

"No!"

Two voices chimed at once: both the younger guard, and the red-headed girl in the cell. It was to her that Braint looked. She spoke in the plains-tongue so that all could understand, though her accent was thicker and her speech less clear than Braint's.

"He is – not his fault. Do not break him,"

Braint looked at her in bewilderment.

"They killed Cumal! They mean to kill you!"

The girl frowned at her.

"Not him. Mayor. Not him."

Braint stared. The girl looked at the elder guard.

"I will change places with you and you boy. No one hurt you both in here. Yes?"

After a moment, the guardsman nodded, and Braint let his hair go. He indicated a place under the table, and with a few moments' searching, Braint found a small keyring hanging there. After father and son had been gagged, bound and bustled into the cage, Braint looked over the girl properly for the first time. Dark copper-red hair framed a tanned face with hazel-green eyes and the slightly wiry, stringy build of someone who has once trained hard but since languished in a cell for too long. She was familiar...

"Brigit? You are Cailin the Dreamer's daughter?"

Brigit nodded, still frowning uncertainly at Braint and rubbing at her wrists where the shackles had been released.

Braint stared at her, the gravity of what she was seeing only beginning to sink in. It was too bizarre. It was almost as though her life before had been a dream that she had set aside, thinking never to live it again. She had grown used to these foreign lands and odd ways, but here was a face from that dream - familiar but strange - standing before her, living and breathing in the waking world, in the midst of all the strangeness that she had become accustomed to. A spell of dizziness gripped her for a moment, but she could not let it take hold.

"Where are the others? The children?"

Brigit frowned at her. She too was afraid of Braint, though she was trying hard not to show it.

"The orphanage. But the doors are barred, and if they see you like that, they will run from you."

"They will see you first. Show me where it is."

There were yells and cries from the far side of the town, and people were looking out of their windows, so going was slow. They could not afford to be seen yet. Brigit had not entirely forgotten how to go unseen, though: Braint was glad of that much. An ice-cold wind blew from the plains and murmured between the buildings.

The orphanage was an old stone building with a slate roof, one of only a few in the town that had more than one storey above the ground, and indeed the door was barred shut, but Braint was not about to be dismayed by so small an obstacle.

"Where are the kitchens?"

Brigit pointed, and Braint looked down. There was a small shuttered window near the ground, but she had come equipped. The short iron bar at her belt had one end flattened, which she jammed behind the shutter and levered it open with a crackling of splintered wood. From there it was the work of moments to tear the shutter from its hinges and climb down into the dark kitchen. She looked back out to Brigit.

"Stay here. Doubak, come"

She turned, and set the smouldering fungus which hung from her belt to a fresh oiled rag, then unhooked the larger smoke-pot from her belt and dropped the burning spill into it. Almost at once, there was a soft hissing and thick white webs of smoke began to pour forth from the holes, with no lick of flame. Prising open the door, she set the pot in the middle of the cold stone floor, and the wind began to suck the smoke in through the half-open doorway. She signalled to Doubak, and he lit his smoke pot, before rolling it down the tiled corridor outside into a nook. The kitchen was rapidly filling with smoke. Braint crouched low and used a box to hold the door open against the sucking draught, then yelled out a the top of her voice, feigning the accent of the townsmen:

"FIRE! FIRE! QUICK! ROUSE THE CHILDREN! GET THEM OUTSIDE! FIIIRE!"

There was a tumbling sound of many feet and screams from the floorboards above, and doors began to slam. Braint and Doubak turned and slunk quickly back out of the window, where Brigit was hugging herself against the cold.

"What are you doing?!" she demanded.

"There is no fire; just smoke. They will come out. When you can see them all, call them over."

The front door swung open and three women rallied more than thirty children outside in varying states of panic, whilst help was called for. Brigit stood and stepped into the light of their lamps as the children were counted.

"Cambriani! To me!" she yelled in the tongue of the tribes.

All eyes turned to Brigit, and a girl of maybe eight or nine years squealed with delight and ran to embrace her. Braint's heart fluttered. For a moment, with her red hair, the little girl had looked like... no. It was not her. She could see her face now. Of course it was not her. She had taken Lanis' body from atop the orc pike herself and laid it to rest in the fire. Besides, she would nearly have been a woman by now...

A bitter cold grabbed her chest.

Seven more children had stepped forward from the group, meaning to run to Brigit, but one of the women reached out and grabbed the arm of the nearest, a boy of about fourteen whom Braint faintly recognised as the son of a hunter.

"You! What are you doing out!? Is this your doing, this fire? Are you mad?"

"_Let – him – go!_" said Braint. Her voice was a cold, venomous hiss from the blackness. She rose up out of the shadows and walked forwards with her long-bladed dirk in her hand, followed by Doubak. Most of the children stepped back and huddled together, and some of them screamed. The little red-headed girl tried to hide behind Brigit, and the hunter's boy looked pale.

"Who... who are you!?" cried the woman, a similar terror rising in her voice.

"I am Braint, Haldad of Cambriani. These children are mine. They are not yours. You can not have them."

"You... you... I'll not let you take them anywhere! No savage puts my children in danger!"

"In _danger_?" Heat was rising in Braint's blood. Part of her understood the woman's defiance, respected her courage, but a deeper, more visceral part, was screaming: _They are MINE!_

"You speak to me of danger? What of Cumal, who swings in the breeze outside your gates? What of Brigit, who waited for the noose? Where is the _danger_ for them? With me? Or here with you?"

"They – they killed a man! Grimbold was a – a good man! He paid much for their keep!"

"He was not a good man, Horrith," said Brigit. "Did you never see the bruises?"

"You... you were always fighting!" replied Horrith, looking at Brigit with such intense dislike that it was clear she had long ago made up her mind about her.

"And what about Breyi? What about Karros? They never fought."

"I have heard your lies, you little witch! He was a good man! He - "

She went quiet and Braint stepped closer to her. Though Braint was not great or tall in stature, with her paint-daubed face, and the anger simmering in her soul, she seemed to fill the space around her, and as she walked between the two, Horrith fell silent and stepped back. Braint spoke, in a quiet voice, but it was full of un-bendable certainty and menace.

"Stop talking. You do not_ understand_. Cambriani do not lie. Cambriani are grown when they reach fifteen. Cambriani _must_ seek their dreaming. You can not beat it out of them. Cumal and Brigit walked upon the path of the warrior, and you do not know what that means. You have just given her two just reasons to kill you: you called her a liar and a witch. You may use these words idly: you may think that beating will fix them, and you may think they will change to your ways if only you keep them confined. You are wrong. These are my people. You have killed one of them, and sent another to die. You are not fit to claim them. You will let them go, now, or the grass will drink your blood."

"You – you wouldn't!"

"Would I not?" There was brimming anger in her voice now. "Not kill the woman who wasted that which is most precious? You do not know how much mercy I have shown already by not killing you on sight!"

The woman quailed as Braint raised the dirk ready to slash at her throat, and she let the boy's arm go. His eyes were alight with a mix of fear and pride, and he stood tall, thumbing his forehead in respectful salute to Braint before he went over to join Brigit and the other children.

"Come," said Braint in the tongue of the Hills, and the group drew away. Some of the Cambriani children were more reluctant than others, but they followed Brigit like a tail.

Braint knew better than to head for a gatehouse. The sounds of alarm would set all the guards at high alert, and she had no desire to test how these children would react to a battle. She did not have time to chase them again were they to flee. They reached one of the walls and Braint used Doubak as a boost to leap up again, this time onto the stone lintel inside. Doubak tossed her the rope and she quickly noosed it over one of the spiked battlements, before shimming back down and making a signal to Brigit for her to climb. She set about shooing the children up the rope, though it was clear from their clumsiness that half of them had not climbed so much as a tree for years.

There were more shouts now. No doubt Horrith had called the guards and the original fire was under control.

"Go! Go!", she urged, watching Brigit trying to goad a scared-looking ten-year old into climbing the rope.

The shouts were coming nearer. Braint unhooked one of the fire-pots from her belt and untied the rag from it.

_If they expect a witch, I will give them one..._

She twisted the rag into a long stiff splint and tucked it between two of her fingers, then blew on the bracket fungus ember until the end of the waxed rag lit.

Armed townsmen piled into the little street, crying out as they saw her and coming closer. Two of them had bows.

Behind her, Doubak was making his hands into a cradle, hoping to lift the boy onto his shoulders so that the children on the wall could pull him up, since he was too scared for the rope.

The mob drew closer, waving makeshift weapons and yelling.

In one swift movement, Braint grabbed her last whole fire-pot, lit it from the burning splint and tossed it onto the ground in front of the mob, where it flared into a bright blue-white flame, causing many in the front row to fall over in shock and trip those behind.

She stalked back and forth across the narrow street, teeth bared in a menacing snarl upon her skull-patterned face, drawing power from their fear and the flame.

"Go back, fools! Or I will feed you to the fire!"

She reached behind her belt to the ragless fire-pot and began to crush it in her hand. The contents were like a fine dry soil mixed with warm wax. These men were not warriors. They could barely even be called a militia: just armed fishermen with some scrounged armour. Such folk had deep superstitions, that would be easy to exploit.

"Witch! Murderer! Don't let her go!"

"I have killed no one yet!" snarled Braint. "And only out of mercy, for you have killed one of mine! Go back, or you will burn!"

The mob was wavering, but some in the back were pushing the rest forwards. One of the bowmen stepped forwards and drew an arrow.

Braint darted towards him and held up her hands before her face, drawing a great breath. Then she opened her hand and blew the dust of the crushed fire-pot past the burning splint towards the bowman. Talthur had shown her the trick. It was near useless as a weapon, but it worked better than she had guessed it might, for the flame seemed to propel itself like the breath of a dragon, and in the flurry, it seemed none of the townsmen had seen that it was not her breath but burning fire-dust that sprang from her lips. The gout of flame washed across his arm with a hiss, setting his cuff on fire. He dropped his bow with a howl and staggered back into the crowd, where his fellows beat at the fire to extinguish it, then fell over themselves to get away as they saw the painted fire-breathing witch closing on them, sword and long-knife bared and shining like great teeth in the moonlight.

Braint was chanting a war-verse in the tongue of the hills, but to them, from the mouth of this daubed terror it sounded like a terrible curse. Those few who stood and fought were disarmed and taken down with slashes to the knee or hamstring, or pommel strikes to the head. None were killed, but one lost a hand and another some teeth, and then all lost their courage. In their panic, none stood sturdy enough to have a chance, though they outnumbered her thirty to one and could easily have slain her had they overcome their fear.

Braint turned, after they had scattered and limped or crawled away, and made back for the rope. The boy who had been afraid of the climb took one look at her and scampered up the rope like a squirrel fleeing a wolf. Brigit followed him and Braint came last. The children scattered upon the wall as she stepped to the battlement and threw the rope over the other side.

The road was not far away, and once all had let themselves down onto the grass – those beneath twice catching those who fell – they headed for the way as it climbed the hillside. These children would leave tracks that a blind man could read, so for now their hope lay in speed. The rabble of the town would not venture forth tonight, not into the black wilds which now held such terror.

Braint glanced about her as they went, and a frightful thought took hold of her. Now she must learn to be something she had never had to before: a leader.


	16. Chapter 16: The lesson

"No, you are choking the flame," said Brann, reaching around Cardagos to show him where to place the tinder on the new fire. "Like this... let it breathe and climb."

_Poor Brann_, she thought. _If there were more girls left alive he would have his pick of them. They would be following him like a line of ducklings._

He was fourteen years old, and had the kind of slightly girlish beauty that made youthful hearts flutter. It did not hurt that he had his arm about a young boy and was teaching him a skill with patience and laughter, or that his blondish-brown hair was just long enough to fall across his big brown eyes when he spoke. Braint tried to hide an amused smirk. She might not yet be three years his senior, but her tastes had moved on. Had she been thirteen again though, she had no doubt she would be blushing constantly and composing verses in her head that she would never dare to speak aloud. And that was all to the good: she was certainly no poet. He would have no luck with Brigit, either, she could see. There was a deep sadness in her eyes that spoke not of the same loss they all bore, but of Cumal, the corn-haired boy who had led these children to safety.

_Poor Brann. Poor Brigit. Poor Breyi_

Breyi was the little red-haired girl who had been the first to run to Brigit outside the orphanage. She despised Braint, because although Braint was Haldad, in Breyi's eyes she was nothing but a usurper, taking power from Brigit and walking over Cumal's memory. Braint did not blame her. If, after all this time of being her own master, some half-forgotten Cambriani had stolen away her independence, she would have resented it too. And to Breyi's young eyes, Braint was likely no different to the adults who had put her in the orphanage.

That was an sad and terrible tale in itself. Cumal and many children had been sent out into the woods to gather herbs and garlands for Braint's homecoming feast. When the attack had come, the children had tried to hide, until an Uruk scout had found them. It had killed three of them and begun to eat one little girl alive before Cumal and some of the older boys had managed to stab it to death with their knives. They had had to kill the girl, too, because she was hurt beyond any healing and in terrible pain. Seeing that Dun Cambrien was lost, they had fled into the wilds, but in the night more than half of the group had become scattered and were lost. Over the next week, Uruks and Torbruggi had chased them, and some were slain. Two more had become ill from disease and died, but those who remained had agreed to follow Cumal to seek out his uncle at Dun Sunon, but when they had arrived there they had found another dead settlement; bodies strewn everywhere being eaten by crows, and so they had returned to the wilds again, and shortly after been captured by a band of Dunad. Those grim men had debated long what to do with them, and had eventually taken them west to the fishing town built near the ruins of Lond Daer - the place that Braint had found them - giving them into the care of the orphanage.

They kept them separated there, so that any attempt to escape could only be for one or two of them, and they could not plan as a group. Each time they had tried to come together, the master of the orphanage had thrashed them with a birch cane until they had bled; even the smallest of them. It was on one such occasion that Cumal had stepped in to defend Brigit, and had beaten the Master to death with his bare fists whilst Brigit barred the door to prevent his rescue.

When Brigit had told her this tale, Braint had felt ashamed. She had not thought to retrieve Cumal's body, and it was only good fortune that the northman Talthur had taken it upon himself to do so. They had no death platform to lay him upon so they had burned his body with the help of Talthur's powdered fire before the northman headed back to Bree. Cumal had no Torc, and he had died without seeking out his Dreaming, and that was a deep and unjust shame, for by his actions, Braint judged him both brave and honourable, and she could see why Brigit had loved him. Braint had named him Warrior posthumously, and afforded him all the honours of that rite when they burned him, but it was not enough to win Brigit's favour.

Brigit was the best fighter of them all, but she was so angry that she let herself rage, and that made her easy to fool in battle. Braint had to try to cure her of it, but it was impossible to do that without earning her hatred. It did not help that Braint was clearly the superior warrior; in fact it only made things worse, because Brigit could not land a single blow on Braint, and every time she was knocked off her feet in training she became more and more angry, and less and less co-ordinated, until she would give up and weep with frustration. Whenever this happened, Breyi would shout insults at Braint and give her no choice but to leave them alone, since her only other option was to punish Breyi's insolence: something she did not want to do for many reasons. Braint had skill in arms, but she had never led anyone who did not want to be led before, and she hadn't the faintest idea of how it was done.

"If I may, Haldad..." Brann said, after Braint had earned another bout of Breyi's ire. "Brigit thinks that she failed Cumal by being too weak. When she spars with you, you beat her every time and make it look easy. If you want to win her favour you must remind her that she is strong. Make sure she knows when she has done something right. Do not make her feel weak."

Braint looked at him thoughtfully.

"She _is_ weak, because she is so angry. Were she to fight a Torbruggi warrior now she would die."

Brann winced. Braint had a feeling he was showing himself to be wiser than she was.

"Who trained you in the way of the warrior? Was it Luain the Hammer?" 

Braint nodded. "But he did not go softly about it." she added, a little defensively. "If I did not block correctly then I would go home with bruises at best."

Brann nodded. "He was a fearsome warrior, I remember, but I watched you train sometimes when you were young. You were always trying very hard, to show that you were the best, and so you became the best. But Brigit is not you." Brann looked nervous confronting her. All of the children were still a little afraid of her, and had been since they had first seen her painted as a nightmare in Lond Daer.

"How do you mean?" Braint asked, determined to listen, since Brann seemed to teach so easily, and with such good cheer.

"She does not have that certainty in her heart that she can be the best warrior in the tribe. Her heart tells her that she is worthless. If she can not hit you, then teach her some trick of yours that will mean she _can_ hit you if you strike in a certain way. Or some lock or strike that will work. Let her get something right, and tell her that she is doing well. But you must mean it. I think you are only used to telling the truth, so it will be clear if you do not mean what you say."

Braint frowned thoughtfully. She did not like his idea. A real fight was a fluid thing. Learning a technique and practising it over and over was all well and good for children but it was too slow. Brigit would be in her final year of intensive training to be warrior, had she been to find her Dreaming. It was more important to learn the feel and flow of a battle, and that was not an easy thing to teach. Luain had never held back in her training after she was about twelve: he had been trying to hit her, and when he did strike it hit hard and hurt badly, but he had always said that if Braint could not survive long enough to land an honest, solid blow on him in training, then she would die in battle, and it would be his fault. So she had lived through the bruises and occasional fractures, and learned to leave aside her fear and frustration; to become fast and agile so that Luain could no longer hit her easily, even though he was trying.

She had a thought, though she was far from sure it would work. She went and roused Brigit, who reluctantly followed her, patting a scowling Breyi on her shoulder.

As they raised their wooden blades and squared off, she spoke.

"You will not attack. You will only block and parry, you understand?"

Brigit nodded irritably, dislike and discomfort smouldering in her eyes.

"If I do not attack, you will stay still and wait, and we will go until you have hit me, no matter how long that takes."

Another nod. Braint returned it and stepped in, striking twice for the chest and once for the leg. A hit, a block, a hit, another hit, a parry. Braint could see the colour rising in Brigit's cheeks, the slight snarl of her lips as they clashed, and clashed and clashed. Brigit never came close to scoring a strike on Braint, but received bruise after bruise from Braint's sword. Braint backed off a step and simply stood, watching. Brigit's shame and frustration was making her arms shake.

Braint slowly swayed her blade, bobbing it back and forth in the air and watched Brigit's eyes follow it. No good – she was looking at the blade like _it_ was the thing to fear; not at Braint herself. Braint stepped up, and struck out three more times, each clumsily parried by Brigit, then stepped back again and began to pace back and forth. Time for her idea...

She stopped pacing and simply held the posture of guard, staring at Brigit's eyes, and swaying ever so slightly back and forth, but keeping her blade still. Brigit seemed to bridle, wanting to attack but being denied. For long, long moments, Braint did not move. Three or four times, Brigit let her frustration build up and began to speak a complaint or to fidget or begin to walk away. Each time, Braint made the beginnings of an attack to make her tense up and stop again, until the frustration mounted to a shivering peak and began to be gradually replaced by a sullen submissive boredom. For long, long minutes Braint did not move, except for the slight, slow swaying that kept her muscles loose. She made her breathing slow and visibly relaxed her muscles, still keeping the guard posture. Brigit stayed still, and eventually her frustrated hazel-green eyes found Braint's calm, swaying grey-blue ones.

Many minutes passed, and nothing happened. Though, slowly, the others had stopped what they were doing and gathered around in curiosity. There was no sound but the chirping and piping of birds all around and the lapping of the lake. Slowly, gradually, Brigit's muscles began to relax too: her breathing slowed; her stance became less stiff and her eyes almost unfocused. Braint let her stand like this for some time, then slowly, gracefully, she stepped in with a wide, sweeping strike to the waist, which Brigit parried instinctively. Braint struck again, and again, and again, speeding up each time she did so.

_There_ it was! She could see the absolute focus now. Brigit had not tensed up again: she was _fighting_, not just slashing and grunting. Braint sped up again, and the wooden swords clacked and smashed against one another faster and faster, as their breathing sped, their hearts raced and the sweat began to fall. Braint parried and struck and parried and ducked, diving under Brigit's arm and striking backhand to find it blocked and countered. Her own blows landed, but not nearly as often as they had before, and Brigit ignored each one, speeding and becoming more accurate until...

_Whack!_

Braint rolled away across the mossy ground, feeling a new, long bruise stinging across her back between her shoulder-blades. A glancing, non-fatal blow, but a hit all the same

"Good!"

She had not even meant to let Brigit hit her. It did not matter that Brigit had been hit half a hundred times before she had landed a blow. She _had_ landed a blow. She had become flustered with success, though, and Braint did not want to ruin the moment. Next time they would continue after the first hit. Braint tucked the wooden sword into her belt and approached Brigit, grasping the forearm of her sword arm and looking into her eyes.

"Remember that focus. It is not rage and it is not anger. You make your mind step aside and let your body move. Your body is Cambriani; it knows how to fight. Your mind should only be there to watch over it, else it will get in the way. Trust your body; trust your instinct, and forget hatred and fear. They only matter when the fight is won."

She remembered Brann's advice.

"I know you think I am hassling you for my own amusement and pride. I am not. I can fight, and I can lead those who want to follow. I do not know how to make you trust me, but if I did not think you could be a strong warrior, I would not keep trying. I am on your side; I _need_ people like you. You understand?"

Brigit looked at the ground and frowned, and nodded very slightly before turning away to walk back to the fire in both embarrassment and quiet pride. Brann grinned at Braint and hopped lazily down off the fallen tree he had been crouching on.

Some progress, at last.

Brigit had not yet reached the fire when a sight in the woods made her dive for her real axe. Braint's heart leapt, and she quickly threw down the wooden blade and drew her sword, before running to Brigit's side. She did not cry out. If whatever she had seen had not yet seen them, then there was no purpose in alerting them. The other children acted admirably; Brann tossed the flap of turf back over the fire pit, and all of the children except for little Cardagos scampered for cover. Brann hastily put a hand over Cardagos' mouth and carried him backwards behind the fallen tree.

"Where?" Braint asked. Brigit pointed, and her face was a grimace of fury.

Braint looked, and saw him; a tall hooded figure in a worn grey cloak; long straight sword at his belt, walking towards their camp. She un-looped her sling, but then saw something that made her pause. Doubak was walking beside the man, leading him back toward them camp. For a bare fraction of a second, Braint felt the shock of betrayal, before taking hold of herself again. Doubak would not betray her.

She put a hand on Brigit's shoulder and told her to stay, then stood and walked forward to meet the two. They stopped, half a spear-throw from the fire. Braint said nothing, but waited for Doubak's explanation.

"I bring you Beriadan, Haldad. He was looking for you; he says you have met."

Understanding. Braint raised a thumb to her forehead and watched the ranger bow low. She would have to speak to Doubak about the wisdom of leading a man he did not know back to their camp, no matter what he claimed.

"Greetings, Braint." the grim ranger said. "I have tidings for you, or at the least a message to pass along."

"I would invite you to share our fire, but it has just been extinguished," she told him.

She looked back at the camp. The children had come out, and they were all looking venom at Beriadan. They hated the Dunedain, ever since they had taken them to Lond Daer.

"Walk with me by the lake instead," Braint suggested.

The ranger nodded and they moved off.

"I see you have regained some of your people," he said, in a voice that gave nothing away.

"Why did you not tell me that some of my folk yet lived? And how did you find us?" Braint asked him, hotly.

"Because I did not know, then. That is not the first time my folk have taken stray children to the ruins of Lond Daer, and I was not among them when they did. I heard about your raid on the town, though, and the harm you did to the folk there. I followed your trail from there."

Braint stopped, bristling.

"I have respect for you, Dunad, but do not question my actions in that place. They were fortunate that I chose not to kill any of them, after what they had done."

Beriadan considered her for a moment, and then nodded.

"Very well. We have more important concerns now, anyway. My kinsmen and the man who leads my people for the moment has need of your aid. The enemy – your enemy, is readying to move, and this may be your only chance to do harm to his schemes. We mean to move against him and would ask your aid."

Braint frowned.

"How do you know this?"

"We have many watchers. I have arranged a meeting place, for the next full moon. If you go there, then Halbarad will meet with you and share what he knows. He said that he was mustering what forces he could to move against the Dunlendings. I thought that it would interest you, so I volunteered your help. Will you go?"

Braint nodded immediately.

"Good. I must leave you now. I have my own errands and I have spent more time than I meant to in finding you. Go well, and good hunting."

Halbarad bowed and turned to leave immediately. Braint stood, looking out at the lake, her heart pounding.

_It is time... time at last._


	17. Chapter 17: The calm before the storm

The moon hung in a fading-blue sky, as the last flames of the day made flags of burning gold scatter along the western horizon. Braint curled her toes over the rough lichen-covered granite and looked down into the little dell. Nine figures sat crouched around the fire, poking at it, talking quietly and shooting wary glances up towards where she sat...

...a thin twist of smoke drifted up through the treetops before being dragged away by the breeze. That could be dangerous - she would have to remind them how to make a fire without smoke.

She stared for long, hammering moments at the shape of the running hare shadowed onto the moon's silver surface, and ran her thumb over its twin, ink-scarred into the skin of her left forearm. A small circle of warmth spread from the movement of her thumb as it circled over and again, flattening the goose-bumped hairs as the evening chill set in. She thought about the girl whose mark it had been, and wondered if she would recognise Braint now. Her eyes fell to the ground for several long moments, then looked up to the moon again.

Lanis had been twelve years old when she died; nearing her first bleeding. A small, delicate child of porcelain-smooth skin and deep, autumn-red hair, she had had the presence of a powerful Dreamer from the beginning. It was difficult for Braint now to remember her as she had been in the early days; the snot-nosed weeping child who had always been closer to their mother's heart than Braint could be, who had frequently woken screaming in the night having dreamt badly and wet the bed; the distant, ungrateful girl who never wanted to playfight or run or climb or hunt with her. That had hurt: she had never really thought about it before, but it had stung that Lanis had never wanted to do what her elder sister did.

It would never have suited Braint to be the youngest, and since she could remember she had needed a younger brother or sister to teach and protect; someone who would look up to her, who would grow to be fast and fierce and skilful - but never quite as good as her - who she could play tricks on and who would play tricks on her in return. But Lanis had been born small and she had stayed that way; it was clear she would not make a good warrior or hunter but even as a small child she had been able to give the impression that she was looking through people, weighing them and calmly deciding their worth. Braint remembered the bitter jealousy she had felt when she had noticed that her mother and father always kept Lanis present when they were meeting with envoys from the other tribes, and that they watched her to see whether she would hide from them, or ignore them, or even go over to them and sit on their laps as they held council. Braint had rarely been allowed into the Greathouse when there was a council, but Lanis' judgement of people had been more instinctive and reliable than that of a hound or a horse and so she was ever invited, unless she was out fishing or wandering and could not be found.

It had seemed like a challenge at first, for Braint to win her sister's favour, but in time it became too difficult to be anything but frustrating and humiliating. Lanis should have looked up to Braint, but it seemed that the two shared almost nothing in common, and her gentle rejection had been harder to understand than open hostility or dislike would have been. No, they were never truly close as children, except on those few occasions when Braint was truly upset: when her favourite hound had been mauled by a boar; when her best friend had been taken by the flux, or when Luain had shouted at her for risking her life in a foolish game. On those days when tragedy had swept life's meaningless theatre aside to reveal the raw and ugly truths beneath, Lanis had been there. She would come and sit wordlessly, resting her head on Braint's shoulder or putting her arms about her; dry-eyed, quiet and warm. She did not have to say anything, for sometimes words can not make a thing better: she only had to be. Braint would feel her little heart beating against her arm, and knew that Lanis understood, and that she cared. On those occasions, there was no one else whose presence she could have preferred, or even accepted.  
And that was her gift and her curse: Lanis saw the world as it was. Once Braint had realised that, she had seen how blind she was herself, and how often people relied upon deception to see them through the day, whether it was to lie to a loved one to spare their feelings or to pretend cheer when the heart was made of lead, or to lie to oneself to justify pride or cruelty or laziness. Lanis saw people doing these things and distantly understood what they were doing, but she was incapable of doing it herself.

For most of the time that they had shared together, Braint had lived in envy of her sister, whom she knew was wiser, more dignified and far more beautiful than her, and she had jealously snatched all the praise she could for her skill with a sword or spear, or sling or on horseback. Under this moon, it was easy to remember Lanis the Dreamer, whose deep grey eyes had always seemed to see straight through Braint's façade and into the heart beneath. She had loved her sister deeply, and feared her equally, though she knew that Lanis would never seek to hurt her. She had never even sought retribution for any of the bitter tricks and pranks that Braint had played upon her, simply cried as though she did not understand why her elder sister would be so cruel.  
But Lanis' was a power wholly unknown to Braint; divorced entirely from the sun-fire and gold and the blood-rage of battle, and that is what she feared. How could she stand there, so small and soft-muscled; pale and vulnerable, and yet be able to make grown adults, seasoned warriors, and respected elders listen to her like an equal? It had not seemed fair that she could be so wise and respected without even trying. Braint knew that she could have broken Lanis in a heartbeat had she wanted to, but even the thought of such violence against something so delicate and caring made Braint's stomach clench tight and her legs weak. To hurt her would have been to desecrate a sacred shrine, or club a rare and beautiful water-bird. And yet that _thing;_ that mindless, brutal, uncaring creature that could not even begin to understand anything of Lanis' gentle, delicate worth, had skewered her like a wild piglet and raised her up into the air to die in shock and agony. Of all the flawed, soiled people it might have slain, it took her. It was not a tale, some sad harper's song; it had happened. It was too real, too brutal; too _unfair_.

Braint shuddered, feeling a wash of cold disgust and crushing sadness, and spat the bitter taste of hatred from her mouth, pinching her eyes tight for a moment and struggling to breathe. After long moments she looked again at the moon. No, it was easier now to think of Lanis as she had seemed then: as a god, a force of nature, untainted by human duplicity, pure and forgiving, but unfathomable.

It was only in the last few years of their life that Braint had found it in herself to forgive her sister her unearned grace and the adoration it drew from all of those who met her. She began to understand finally that she did not have to compete. She had just begun to see that what had stood between them for the past ten years had been Braint's own insecurity, and her fear of being inadequate; it was only when she had stopped trying to prove herself better than her sister that she had seen that she was not inferior; only different. Only then could the two of them truly relax in one another's company, and to Braint's delight, she had found that she had a talent for making Lanis laugh – something that only her uncle Luain had hitherto been able to do with any frequency. There had grown in Braint then a fierce love – something so potent that it almost hurt, squeezing at her gut, and she felt she knew for fleeting moments what it would feel like to be a mother.

It had been the hardest thing that Braint had ever done to forgive herself for failing to save her, but she knew in her soul that she could not have done other than she had. She had been upon an errand for the Gods on that day, and as soon as she had felt the danger she had ridden her horse so hard that it probably could not have recovered. All she could have achieved by arriving earlier would have been to die moments before her sister had. Sometimes, she knew, the Gods called upon a Dreamer to serve them ahead of time, and perhaps they had made sure that Braint could not have saved her. All of this sounded to her like pretty lies, and the bitter injustice of it still stung like a salted wound. She had tried hard not to hate the Gods for their theft.  
Retribution, then, had been the only purpose of her life. It was her people who had been betrayed, and she was alone in the world; the last of the Cambriani, and the only one who could take vengeance. It had seemed so, at least, until she had learned that she was not alone. New terrors as yet unimagined had begun to form unbidden within her, for it was all too easy to be the queen of a dead people, and another thing entirely to be a Leader. There had been a kind of perverted freedom in being alone and without responsibility. There was a purity in her singularity of purpose, and it had been clear to her that the old customs were all that mattered, and anyone who could help her find vengeance could be a friend, no matter what they had been before. There was something almost like excitement to be found in meeting those she had once been sworn to fight against, and more in the conflicts that arose when they failed to conform to the customs of her people. There was a strange and compelling power to making others fear momentarily for their lives, and then offering them a reprieve; the flash of fear or mistrust, replaced by relief as she lowered her weapon. Now that she thought of it, she felt a little stab of shame, imagining what her uncle would have said had he seen her using her weapons to intimidate those she had no intention of killing.

But that was just it; she could no longer pretend to herself that whatever she did was justified. She was Haldad, and the title had to mean something. It was more than a royal torc and another cruel irony; she had the right of blood over these children in the dell. It was up to her, who had never led in earnest, to see that these few people were cared for and lived long enough to pass on their blood. A flush of frustration burned at her cheeks and she kicked the ball of her foot down against the stone. She was no longer free to risk her own life, because it no longer belonged to just her. Who was she now but some wild stranger? A painful reminder of a past left behind? The children had formed their own group, and Cumal had been their leader. Whatever Braint did, she would be compared to him, and their grief for the pale-haired youth who had protected them would make them remember only his virtues, and none of his failings. She could not abandon them, but they did not truly want her.

She looked down at them now, observing the tight-lipped frown with which Breyi had fixed her before quickly looking away, and tried not to feel angry that they had survived. She wanted Lanis - or Luain, or Caradoc, or Gwyddhien, Elis, Sonos, Merra, or any of her old friends - so badly that she thought her heart might simply stop. But instead she had these damned ungrateful midden-foxes!

She swallowed, looking away sharply in case anyone saw the scowl she could not keep from crossing her face.

No, that was foolish. What she had was a reason to live, even if they _could_ do with a wash. She made herself stand and suck in a few long, cold lungfuls to calm herself, before turning once to the moon and raising her thumb to her forehead, then heading back down to the fire.


	18. Chapter 18: Many meetings

"There they are.."

Doubak pointed, and Braint looked about. Sure enough, there, snaking abut the base of the hill were a number of small black dots, moving carefully about the fringes of a patch of gorse. They were moving well: if she and Doubak had not been waiting for them, they would have had difficulty spotting them in this wild country.

"Very well. Let us go and meet them, then."

She waved a hand behind her, and a few moments later, Brigit was crouching by her, and trying to spy out the land.

"The Dunad are coming, and whatever help they have managed to muster. We must go down and meet them. I know that you do not like them, and I do not blame you, but in this, they are our allies. Do you understand?"

Brigit nodded sternly. Braint knew that she still blamed the Dunedain for Cumal's death, but this was too important to ruin in the name of resentment. Returning to the children and Doubak, they gathered what was left of the camp and folded the turf back over the remnants of the last night's dead fire, scattering leaves to make their tracks harder to find. The children were clumsy, having spent so much time away from the wild, but Braint did not slow down to instruct them today. Beriadan had said that his kinsmen were coming and that they brought tidings of great import.

When they were packed, they set out quickly, taking a a path through thick clumps of bracken so as to keep them hidden. The shapes had been too far out to identify clearly, and she was not about to lead the entire remnant of her people into an ambush. Once they were close, she signalled for them to stop, and headed forward alone into the clearing.

The old standing stone sat in the middle of a broad old ring of earth, covered in wet bracken and blackthorn bushes, but the patch about the stone itself was clear of all except for thick wet grass. Wrapping her travelling cloak about her shoulders against the cold, she thumbed her forehead to the ancestor-stone and then leaned against it, waiting alertly. After a few moments, tall figures – hooded and cloaked - began to emerge from the gorse to the north. The first of them raised a hand to show that it was empty, then stepped closer, drawing back his hood.

"Hail," he said. He was a handsome and regal man: tall, dark-haired, with piercing grey eyes. Braint returned his greeting with a a respectful thumb to her forehead, standing straight and proud.

"My name is Halbarad, and I lead this company south. Beriadan said that there would be an ally here. I admit I did not expect another Dunlending, but I trust his word and his judgement. So come, who are you, friend?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but almost immediately, she was cut off.

"Braint! _Braint!_ Gods, is that you?!"

Braint looked about sharply. The question had been asked in the tongue of the tribes, and surely enough, two dozen more figures emerged from the gorse. And at their head...

Braint's mouth fell open. There, in a rust-coloured cloak and maille, stood a man she had not seen in many years. Indeed, he had been a boy when she had last seen him.

Dubhornos, her cousin, was staring at her with an expression of utmost amazement. She felt dazed, but as he stepped forward, his expression turned from one of deepest disbelief to utter delight. He grabbed her in the kind of hug that a drowning man gives a passing log.

"Gods, I thought you were dead!"

Braint's mouth opened and closed, not finding a sound to utter, but then she wrapped her arms about him and fought to stifle a wave of spasming gasps of breath in her chest.

"Dubh!"

Her tone carried a high note of urgent disbelief. Here, she had thought herself alone in the world, and a living, breathing member of her family had just stepped out of the undergrowth and embraced her. Her reality swayed and flickered, and yet he was still there, now holding a hand under each side of her jaw and looking into her eyes with a dazed adoration and joy on his face.

"Gods, little cousin. I thought you were all gone! I even sang the chant of the departed for you. How came you here!? How?"

His voice was thick with emotion, and Braint could not help but let her eyes rim with tears. She had never lived with Dubhornos, but she had loved him all the same, and always savoured his company when he and his mother would come to Dun Cambrien for the summer trading fairs. He had been following the path of the warrior as well – a few years ahead of her - and she had cherished the chance to compete and test her skill against him and the other Sunonni children - as he came from another tribe - but he had always taken every competition with good cheer and bright energy…

"By a long road, Dubh," she answered. The grit of emotion carried in her voice, making it hoarse. "And a lonely one. Gods it is good to see you! I too sang the chant for you and all your people... I know its words too well now."

"Aye..." he said, looking down. "We all do. But here we stand, scars healing. And I can not tell you how pleased I am to see you alive!"

With that, he gave her another strong hug.

"I regret that I must intrude, but we have urgent business to attend to."

It was Halbarad. She had almost forgotten that he was there, and was so lost in joy and memory that in that moment she had trouble remembering the plains tongue and had to take a moment to translate.

"Of course," she said heavily, pulling away from Dubhornos and hastily wiping her cheek. "I am Braint, Haldad of Cambriani. Greetings, Halbarad."

It was difficult to focus on the tall Dunadan, as in the meantime, threescore rust-cloaked Sunonni warriors had flowed into the clearing alongside half as many Rangers, and she saw many faces that she knew and wished to greet, more than she wished to treat with Halbarad.

"Haldad? I did not know that tribes could be led by one so young," said Halbarad. His tone was not disrespectful, but Braint nevertheless straightened herself again, regretting her loss of composure before the stranger.

"Such is fate, Dunadan. There were many in line before me, but they are dead, as are those who came after."

He nodded.

"I regret that it is so. Still, you may have opportunity for revenge. Dubhornos has spoken with me of the man who is behind your loss – Berkos of the Torbruggi tribe."

Braint was not the only one who spat upon the ground at the sound of his name.

"Yes. What news of him, Dunad?"

"He is but one lieutenant in the army of a greater power, I regret to say, though he is important and carries much weight of authority among the hill-peoples."

"One lieutenant? No, you have it wrong, Berkos _is_ the power. He has set himself up as a hero of legend," Braint replied, scowling angrily.

Dubhornos shook his head.

"It is true, cousin. Berkos acts on the words of Sharku – the Old Man of the Tower."

"No!"

Braint was utterly shocked. There were many legends of the old Dreamer Saruman, and they each spoke of a man both great and wise, watching over the great ringed fortress upon the Iron River, from whence many of Braint's own ancestors had come. It had always been a point of pride for her.

Halbarad nodded grimly.

"None foresaw his betrayal, even among the Wise, but it is he who has bred this army of twisted goblin-men, though it was by use of the Torbruggi women and his own craft that he did so, we understand. All the same, the host is on the move. They have finally mustered their strength and they march for Rohan as we speak. They will burn as they go, and make great pillage and ruin in their path."

'Therein lies our hope, little cousin," interjected Dubhornos. "Slim though it may be. Father had dealings with Berkos, of a time. He said the man had a fondness for revelling in the ruins of his foes. It may be that he is become reckless with the power he has mustered. And then maybe he has not. All the same, we will not have another chance to kill him."

Braint scowled at the grass in thought.

"Maybe. If we do kill him, it will not stop the horde, but it may dismay them. Slow them, perhaps. It is his silver tongue that holds the tribes united. His tongue and my father's sword."

She spat bitterness upon the grass.

"That is our hope also, Haldad Braint," said Halbarad. "The Rohirrim are scattered and in disarray. Any time that can be bought will mean more men that can be mustered in defence. They will retreat to the Hornburg, I'll be bound, and that is where my kinsmen and I must go, to aid in its defence. The orcs make up the greatest part of the army, yet the tribes who are united are... formidable, all the same. Our scouts say much of that might lies with the power of their morale: they believe themselves to be on a great undertaking, and untouchable. If you could strike at their heart and kill their leader in the midst of their moment of glory, then perhaps they would doubt the rightness of their endeavour, and maybe even struggle for leadership."

Braint nodded, thoughtfully.

"Maybe. I will not let a chance to kill him slip me by. He has hounded my family since long before I was born. What will you do?"

"We will wait here, for one night. We have travelled far and are weary, and friends follow behind, bringing horses for my men. Once they arrive, we will go with all speed and see what may be done to slow the horde from the front."

Braint eyed him appraisingly.

"My uncle fought against your kind once, and since that day he always spoke most highly of your courage. He was not mistaken. There is a wood nearby that is sheltered. I can not pretend that it is dry, but there is no better campsite within easy distance."

"You are kind, Haldad. My men and I would be pleased for some rest and food. I believe there is a hunting party of your cousin's folk who went in search of deer. They ought to be back soon."

And so they left a man behind to point the hunting party on their path – a mere courtesy since it was difficult to conceal the tracks of near ninety walkers. The Dunedain were grim and quiet as she led them to the woods, but when the Cambriani children came out of hiding, many of the Sunonni warriors greeted them with great cheer and enthusiasm. A great-uncle of Breyi's was among them, and two cousins of Brigit's. Marching at the front alongside Halbarad and Dubhornos, Braint envied them the freedom of their rank, for she longed to go back and hug those she knew, and reminisce about happier times. Instead she spoke at length to Dubhornos and Halbarad.

"What do you know of this man who leads the tribes, Haldad?" asked the ranger, quietly.

Braint scowled at the path in front.

"He has troubled us since my mother was a child," she said. "She was made to stand as Haldad when she was twelve, because her father and many of the Elders who could yet travel were called away to Dun Torbruk for a counsel there. They did not return, and instead a great raid of Torbruggi came unannounced and killed many, and took away my mother Gwyddhien and many of the Elders who remained. There was a great hunt, and all of the tribes around answered our call and sent warriors."

"But it was the Sunonni who caught up with her," Dubh reminded her with a broad grin. "My uncle, Caradoc the Bear's Rage." 

"My father," she added, and Halbarad nodded understanding. "He killed Berkos' son and many of his honour guard, and rescued my mother from them, and the rest were defeated by our warriors.

"Aye, and ripped apart and made into blood-dragons to mark your borders, in case the Torbruggi ever became so forgetful again," Dubh laughed. Halbarad looked at him sidelong but did not comment.

"They earned it. The Elders called a council on the solstice to decide what should be done, but the other tribes spoke much and did little, except for the Sunonni."

"It was Sharku," Dubh told her, grim now. "He had his fingers in them already. We had already proven ourselves to be too friendly to the Cambriani, so we were not told of his plan, but that was what the first council at Dun Torbruk had been: Sharku seeking to unite the tribes for the march on Calenardhon. Your grandfather was not willing to ally with orcs, so Sharku ordered your tribe subjugated or destroyed."

Braint gaped at him. "How do you know this?"

"Our Ghosts. We had it from Torbruggi scouts they caught as they chased us north into the Lone Lands. It was Sharku from the start."

Braint scowled and clenched her fists.

"Na siadh dahin," she spat.

"Na siadach dahin," Dubh agreed.

"Much is said of the power of Saruman's silver tongue," observed Halbarad, grimly. "When he speaks, even the great and wise are swayed, they say. And it seems that this Berkos might have been swayed with uncommon ease."

"Many would be," said Dubh, frowning. "Were it not for his Great-Urk, all would have been. No tribe has any love for your friends in Rohan, but we northern tribes who were nearest the ruins of the old elderhin city in the Holly-vales long ago learned to do nothing more friendly to an orc than set it on fire."

"Either way, Caradoc was wed to Gwyddhien when she became a woman," Braint continued. "And nothing happened for many years. I suppose Sharku waited until he had all the tribes under his hand before attacking the Cambriani, and then the Sunonni. He _used_ my homecoming feast, after my warrior's rites," she glowered. "He knew that it would mean the whole tribe was gathered for the feast, so that none would escape."

Halbarad frowned deeply.

"That was a cruel and wicked deed."

"He failed, Braint. Some more of your Cambriani children found their way to our village. That is how we were warned; why we were not destroyed utterly. Near a third of us fled before the blow fell."

Braint looked at him in surprise.

"How many children?"

"Only a dozen, I regret, but your orphanage strays will be pleased; I think they were friends of theirs."

"That is not many, but it is twelve fewer names to mourn. Hundreds, indeed. I am glad that so many of your folk survived."

The woods were not warm or dry, but they were not windy, either, and the group managed to make smoky, hissing fires in fairly short order. Braint went about the Sunonni warriors and hugged or saluted those she knew; greeted those she did not. Breyi seemed to like her much more now that she was bouncing on her Grand-uncle's knee. When she was not being a snot-nosed little brat, the girl was quite adorable. Braint could not help but smile at her joy.

And then, when the hunters returned, she found one more name she need not mourn.

"Elis!"

The tall, handsome boy had become a broad and handsome man, and as she cried out, he dropped the boar from his shoulder in disbelief. She approached him with wide eyes, almost not daring to believe it. Her good friend; the boy who had killed an orc with a lump of quartz and so won his first kill feather before he was a man. He stood and saluted her with a thumb to his forehead. She stopped and returned the salute, but she could not keep the stunned grin from her face, and when it broke through her dignity, she relented and hugged him about the waist. That made him laugh.

"They haven't killed you yet, little bird? You always were best at disappearing when the fight became too fierce."

"Only so I could reappear and stab them in the back," she said, grinning broadly.

It was almost too much. Each of them was exhausted from long marching, but it was difficult not to stay up late into the night laughing and drinking among old friends. It was difficult to remember that they were chasing down a horde of many hundreds of times their numbers, and would likely all die in the attempt. It almost did not matter, she thought. If she could die now, she would die happy.


	19. Chapter 19: The road south

They woke early, as the sentries hurried in just after dawn. Horses were coming. All roused and armed themselves, though the Dunedain had said that they were expecting friends with horses, and friends it proved to be, though as the two tall men drew closer, leading threescore horses, she realised that they were not men at all: there was something weightless about them; tall and lithe, and clad in strange armour in flowing patterns and unknown metals, there seemed almost to be a light about them as they passed under the trees, as though they did not quite cast shadows in the same way as other men.

"Elderhin," she muttered in incredulity to Dubh and Elis. The old stories spoke of Elderhin as blood-drinking demons – more subtle and more dangerous than urk, but Beriadan had put her right on that with great vehemence and sincerity.

She hastily made herself presentable and moved over to join Halbarad as he went to greet the new arrivals.

"Hirrim, I present Braint nic Gwyddhien, Haldad of the Cambriani tribe, and Dubhornos ap Howel, captain of the Sunonni war band," said Halbarad, bowing to them. Braint was mildly impressed that he had remembered the names of their sires and attached them correctly to their own names. Both she and Dubh gave the thumb-to-forehead salute of the tribes, and the two elves bowed from their saddles.

"And here I present Hir Elladan and Hir Elrohir, whose father is lord of Imladris, the hidden valley," he continued.

"Aiya, Haldad, Captain. We are honoured to meet you, though I regret it must be brief, for we have great need of haste," put in one of the elves. Braint could not tell them apart in the low light.

Braint nodded, and the elf turned to Halbarad. Out of courtesy, he spoke in the common tongue.

"The horde is mustered. We have brought horses and remounts, for I fear we must use them cruelly if we are to reach the fords of Isen in time. I regret we did not bring enough for your companions."

"No matter," said Braint, as Halbarad went to muster his men. "We mean to chase the horde and attack their tail, not ride ahead of them."

"That is well," said the other elf. "It will buy us time, though I do not envy you so dangerous a task."

"I do not envy yours... Hir," she replied, hoping that she had used the title correctly. "You need not fear for us. We of the tribes fight best from ambush, and this horde means to go quickly - they will resent being slowed looking for us each time after we strike."

"Let us hope so. I wish you all the greatest fortune in your hunt, Haldad. Namárië," he said, with a wave.

"Hela na'r hwy, elderhin," she replied, wishing him a good hunt in the tongue of the hills.

Once they had mounted, the Dunedain and their spare horses moved off at a canter, leaving a great swath of grass and bracken flattened as they turned west for the road. Her own followers left more slowly, still stiff from their long marches, and having to fight their instincts not to clear all evidence of their stay, as was the custom among the tribes. It jarred with Braint to leave so many smoking fire-pits and footprints, but there were too many of them to cover their tracks, and their hope lay in speed. It was hard going, but they were hard folk. Even the children kept up. It would not be safe to turn them loose in these lands, for the orcs of the mountains had started to hunt in large roving bands at night. Sometimes riding their great demon-wolves. Braint knew that Brigit would outright refuse to turn back, and she did not want to have to fight her, so she did not order it.

The glow of being part of a people again had settled inside Braint in a way that would be difficult to dislodge, though as they passed south, skirting the tribelands, much of it was replaced with anxiety. From scouting into the hills, the Sunonni found that the whole of Dunland had emptied, leaving only the young, the very old and the sick or crippled behind. Many thousands had gone south under the banner of the white hand, and Braint could not but wonder if any of this band of warriors and children she led would survive. She watched the Cambriani children with pride and worry, for they kept up without complaining, but she doubted more and more that she had been right to let them come. She should have left them back in Minhiriath, but it was too late now.

She had been right about the orcs, though, twice, her scouts reported that bands of mountain orcs had come down into the hills to feast on the defenceless folk left behind by the horde, and Braint found herself near-ready to turn aside and aid her enemies' helpless kin, though she had no doubt that those who returned victorious would still have her head. Many of the families left behind were scattering, either heading into the wilds, to the larger duns or even south after the horde, hoping themselves safer trailing after an army than within their own compounds. Braint would not let her children go back north through all that alone, so she kept them with her and begged the ancestors to keep them safe at every stone they passed.

On the dawn of the third day, a young scout ran up to her breathlessly through the snowdrops to tell her that a cave bear was following them; greater than any beast she had ever seen.

"A great black bear with a skinless face?" she asked, hiding a half-smile.

The Sunonni girl looked at her in puzzlement, but nodded. Braint laughed.

"The next time you see him, tell him that I have no food for him but dried deer-meat, but he is welcome to it if he cares to share my fire."

The scout looked at her as if she were mad. That seemed to be the consensus on the faces of her companions.

"He is called Huer No-Face," she explained. "His folk walk as men and as bears, for their Dreaming is strong. He is a friend of mine."

The looks turned to puzzlement, suspicion and some in awe.

"I have heard of the Bear-Dreamers," one old warrior piped up. "In a tale many grandfathers past. They are wroth to their foes and loyal to their friends, it is said."

Those who had been giving Braint looks of suspicion took pause at this, for the old warrior's voice was respected among the Sunonni.

"That is true," Braint said more seriously. "Be sure that all know not to raise a spear to him. I have seen him fight, and we have few enough warriors as it is. He is a friend and should be treated with respect."

Those mustered nodded and went to pass the message along.

Huer caught up to them during the next night, and was announced by the scampering of feet as Braint's followers got out of his way. Breyi, who had been sitting beside Braint's fire with Brigit, went as white as a cloud when the enormous man appeared at the verge of her firelight.

"A girl in a red cloak told me you promised food at your fire," he said, in his great, booming voice. "Is this all you have for me?" he asked, gesturing to Breyi. "You might have saved a bigger one."

Breyi stood up, shaking. "I am not afraid of you!" she shouted, causing Braint and Huer both to laugh. Braint felt a little rush of pride alongside her amusement. Many things could be said about the little redheaded girl, but no one could call her a coward.

"It seems this one will be too fierce for you, Huer. You will have to make do with dried venison."

Brigit did not seem to approve of Huer's joke, and maintained a cold silence until Breyi began to pester Huer with questions and doubt. She had heard about his being a bear-Dreamer without a face, and curiosity mixed with fear to become irritating persistence, until Brigit took control of her. Huer dealt with her pestering with indulgent patience and amusement, much to Braint's surprise. It seemed odd to see so grizzled and frightening a creature as Huer behave with such tenderness towards a child, but Braint supposed that Breyi might have been the first child not to run away when she saw his face. It ought not to have been such a surprise, considering how Huer had treated Braint before now. There was a great heart hidden behind his nightmare mask.

Huer had not come simply to amuse Breyi, though.

"There has been a fierce battle in the south," he told Braint, becoming grim. "The heir of the horse-lords is dead, they say, and your enemy goes to join up with the force that killed him. You are days behind them, but they are not used to marching as an army, so you may catch up with them yet."

They went early and hard the next morning, and found the trail of the horde: a great swath of flattened grass, smoking firepits and waste. In the afternoon of that day, the girl who had spotted Huer – whose name was Codi - came again and reported a band of older children and pregnant women heading south. Many of them were armed and of an age that they would soon become warriors, she said.

"But children still," Braint said. "Let them find the horde and tell them what is become of their Duns when they are away. That will do more damage than we could by turning them back or fighting them."

So they skirted about the group and passed them in the evening, and passed out of the tribe-lands, into Calenardhon of old, now Rohan. There, the bodies began, and through the next day they found thousands of them, littering the plains and floating down the great Avon Hairn; the Iron River. The putrid corpses of Great-Urk lay alongside those of Forgoil and warriors of the tribes, left to rot by the Horde as it surged forth into the plains. Many of Braint's Sunonni stopped to trade their weapons with better ones that lay discarded, or to take shirts of maille and helms from the Forgoil. The few swords that were found were snatched up quickly, for to own such a weapon was a mark of status, even if it had been taken from a dead foe. Braint felt distaste as she watched, since these Forgoil had not been killed by the warriors who were taking from them, but the better armed and equipped her folk were, the more swiftly vengeance would come for the fallen men.

The fords were nothing, though. Soon they began to pass villages and hamlets that had been overrun by the horde, and as she saw the first child's body impaled upon a pike, Braint almost could not contain her sickness. She knew Urk-work when she saw it. And that was not the worst of it, for the Larachi and their like had left their mark too. Every body of a woman or girl older than an infant that they found had been stripped naked and used before they died. A deadly, black rage began to grow in her company, for all of them but Huer had lost close kin in the same manner, to the same foes, and though these were the corn-haired bodies of their enemies, it seemed to make no difference any more. They pressed on ever faster.

After midday, they came across another sight, both gruesome and hopeful. A hundred or more bodies, most wearing white cloaks but the green and blue sashes of the Atrabi tribe, all slain by great deep slashes from urk-blades. Many had had a leg roughly cut off or gnawed by long fangs, or bones split and emptied of marrow.

"What is this?" asked Doubak, looking sickened.

"The price of remembering your honour, I would guess," Braint said. "It means there is dissent."

The news was grim but good. The scouts were earning great honour as they advanced, for the horde had become broad and scattered as it advanced, diverting to pillage and burn villages and strongholds along the way. Codi had even come close enough to see Berkos himself, laying atop a screaming Eotheod girl.

"How was he guarded?" Braint asked, scowling.

"Two of his honour guard," she replied. "There were many warriors and Urk in the village, roaming in bands, but none rode with him closely except for those two. One of them is a Ghost. I was nearly seen."

Braint was impressed by Codi. She could not have been much more than a couple of months past her initiation, but she was already showing great courage at coming so close to the enemy, and skill at escaping unseen.

"It is a pity you are not of my tribe," she told her. "I would ask you to be part of my honour guard if you were."

Codi blushed, but looked pleased.

"You honour me, Haldad. But if we live through this we will be family. Dubhornos and I will be bound to one another, once we return to the Dreamers."

Braint had no answer but to embrace her, grinning.

She had lost five scouts and warriors as they cut forward to harry the stragglers from the Horde during the nights, but they had killed many times that number, and broken the spokes of cartwheels, set fire to supplies and fled. She had made sure that they had always done so dressed in the armour of Forgoil and speaking no word of Tribe-tongue. Many of the other scouts had returned leading horses, either fled from battle or from the ruins of their stables, so now nearly a quarter of Braint's companions were mounted, and better so than any tribesmen before them, she did not doubt. She had no love for the Forgoil, but she could not say the same of their steeds: tall, strong, fleet of foot and obedient to the lightest touch, they might even have been a different species to those plodding things that were found in Breeland. Only Huer posed a problem, for even in his mannish form, the horses frighted when they smelled him, so he had taken to scouting ahead, striding quickly on his long shanks, and sometimes coming back with black or red blood on his axe or hands. He had become very quiet since they had seen the first bodies of innocents, and would often seem to be simmering with rage. Even Breyi, who had taken to him greatly, left him alone now. Braint wished that the children did not see what they had seen, but what was almost more disturbing was how little it seemed to bother them. When they had come across the Atrabi corpses, Breyi had kicked the first one and spat upon it, before Brigit had pulled her away.

Huer sighed at Braint, glowering at the horizon.

"We should aim to strike tonight. They will reach the Hornburg late on the morrow at this rate. We will not have another chance. Have you given any thought of how it will be done?"

Braint frowned, staring off into the distance.

"We can only hope to catch him at his weakest, when he is tupping some Forgoil woman or drunk on spoils. But I can not see how we can slay him and survive. You may have been wrong after all, Huer."

Huer growled.

"I mean to prove that I was not wrong. I will come with you when you go, maybe to tear us a way out if we are surrounded."

"Either way, it will not be as it should be. It should be a duel, and we should have time to make of him a warning, that will break the spirit of the tribes. I do not see how either can be done."

"Nor I. You may still turn back, and live. Take these folk back north to find new lands, a new tribe."

Braint smiled at him, sadly.

"No, Huer, it is too late for that now. We can never be safe while Berkos lives."


	20. Chapter 20: Vengeance

The blood on Braint's hands was congealing, making them stick uncomfortably to the tacky hilt of her dagger. Without taking her eyes from the burning village, she reached down slowly to wipe them on the dewy grass, though it had little effect. A muffled scream made her turn her head sharply. This one was closer than the others, and it was followed by a harsh laugh and jeers. Someone was running towards the copse where she was hiding, panting in terror. It was a woman, her pale blonde hair was straggled and dirty, her tunic was torn and there were no boots upon her feet. She whimpered in terror as she crashed through the bushes half a spear-throw away to the right, and moments later it became clear what she was running from. Two grinning tribesmen were sprinting after her, whooping and jeering. Braint sighed and resumed wiping her blade upon the grass.

"What are you doing?!", hissed a boy's voice angrily from the shadows behind. "Help her!'

Braint sheathed her blade and looked back to the village ahead of them.

"No," she intoned quietly. "There are two. I can only kill one at a time, and the other will call out. The risk is too great."

"You damned savage! Have you no mercy?"

A girl's voice this time. Braint rounded on her with narrowed eyes. She opened her mouth to berate her, but the girl's face was twisted with barely suppressed fury, fear and impotent frustration. She remembered that rage and swallowed her threat.

"It is not about mercy. We can not help every one of your kin." she said, attempting a conciliatory tone.

"Then what use are you!" snapped the boy, flicking a pale forelock out of his eyes and grabbing his sister's arm. "If you'll not help her, we'll not help you. Come, Éohild, let us leave this savage to her fancies!".

In a silent, graceful movement, Braint rose and stepped in their way. A flicker of fear flashed across the boy's eyes briefly before he set his jaw again in anger. He opened his mouth to complain, but Braint cut across him in a low but commanding tone:

"Quiet. We have no time for games. I need you sister's help, so I will do as you ask. But this is the last time. Stay here. Do _not_ follow me, or you will regret it. Stay."

Without waiting for a response, she turned and began to jog silently through the bushes, reading the tracks upon the ground. It was not difficult. Even had they not torn through the undergrowth like raging boars, sobs and jeers rang through the forest ahead. A blind man could have tracked this prey.

The Forgoil youths had seemed a Gods-send when Codi and Dubhornos had captured them on the plains: a tall stout lad who could likely swing an axe and a pretty blonde-haired girl of about thirteen: just the type to catch Berkos' eye. However, they hated Braint and all her war-band, and it was only the promise of revenge that had led them to follow at all. Braint had even subtly threatened them, though it had made her feel wretched to do so. The greatest danger now was that their fear for one another would take over their honour.

Braint stopped at the edge of the clearing and took her bearings. The larger of the two Torbruggi tribesmen was atop the Rohirrim woman, whilst the other stood watch. He was a wiry man, with thin hair that hung like rat's tails down the back of his neck, but he was alert, watching the way back to the village and barely glancing at his companion. It was clear from his manner that they had done this many times before.

Braint gritted her teeth and swallowed. She wanted to charge, and punish these vermin with the long blade, but they were too far apart to take swiftly. Instead she padded around until she was within pouncing distance of the larger man and his victim. She uncoiled her sling and loaded it, then made herself look, though it sickened her, and waited until the man was least alert.

Silently, she pounced, smashing her dagger hard into the rapist's temple and bounding past as he grasped at his head in silent shock She had meant to kill him outright but he had moved at the last moment and the strike had not fully bitten, though he was stunned. The rohirrim woman screamed, but that did not matter: there were many womens' screams on the air tonight. Three whirls and she loosed her slingstone, striking the rat-tailed man hard in the back of the neck as he began to turn, making him stagger. Five bounding paces and she was upon him, ramming her knee into the back of his and gripping his chin; bringing up her blade to slash his throat, but he was a slippery foe. He twisted hard, ramming his elbow into Braint's ribs, slipping from her grasp and leaping upright. Wincing, Braint thrust her knee forwards, hoping to knock the wind from his lungs before he could call out, but instead catching him hard in the groin. The low howl he let out was not loud enough to carry, but she did not allow him to time to regain his breath. Again she rammed forward her knee, smashing it into his face as he bent double. Quick as a snake, she rushed into him, following him down and stabbing repeatedly at his chest and throat as he fell.

Before the shock had even faded from the rat's eyes, she was on her feet again and running at the burly warrior. She was almost too late: despite the hole in his skull he was on his feet, gathering his breath to roar. Desperately, she leapt at him, thrusting her dagger for the point where his ribs met. With a slick hushing sound, the warrior's roar was turned into a gurgle moments before it reached his lips. But before the blade had bitten as deep as it may, his elbow came up hard at the top of Braint's skull and she tumbled to the ground. Her head pounded as the world spun. She staggered to her knees and squinted through the pain as the warrior dazedly tried to pull Braint's blade from his chest. Stumbling towards him, she grappled for a moment with his slippery hands, before managing to plunge the blade home even as he gripped it – deep into his heart.

Wincing, she twisted and drew it forth again and turned, before falling forwards onto one hand, the other grasping her head. Dizzily, she looked up to see the dishonoured woman staring at her in horror, still lying against a tree-stump. Blinking and scowling, Braint climbed to her feet and gestured with her chin towards the forest. The woman struggled to her feet and fled.

Spitting on the grass, Braint cursed, then moved to the gurgling form of the rat-tailed tribesman as he writhed feebly on the ground. She kicked aside his clawing hand and finished him cleanly with a thrust to his heart, before flicking the blood from her blade and striding from the clearing, past the two wide-eyed Rohirrim youths, who backed away as she passed.

"I told you not to follow me," she said impatiently. "Come. I still need your help."

Without looking back, she broke into a silent jog, ducking under branches and leaping over briars and fallen logs with barely a whisper, though she might not have bothered, given the crashing and panting that followed behind.

As they grew close enough almost to feel the heat from the towering flames, Braint began to slow, and waited for the two youths to catch up. As they approached, she raised a hand to signal her presence, and the girl named Éohild barely stifled a yelp as she spotted her. Braint's heart skipped a beat at the sound, and she quickly turned again to be sure they had not been heard or seen. Nothing... good. Turning back, she frowned at Éohild, but the girl was too scared to notice her anger. Sighing, she took her arm and pulled her down into the shadows, earning a scowl from her brother. Braint reached out and turned the girl's head so that she was looking into her eyes.

"You _must_ take care! If you are seen too soon, all of this will be in vain, and no one will avenge your people, or mine. I know you hate me – you see only another 'Dunlending'. But you must trust. I _know_ what you are feeling now. Whatever else I am, I know the burning in your gut, I know the terror, I know the fury and the grief, and they come from the crimes of the same man. There is only one difference – I had no hope for vengeance to comfort me, but if you do as I ask, then our enemy will die before the dawn, and these... filth will rejoin their horde without a leader. I know it is not enough, but I can not kill all of them. Perhaps your kinsmen at the Hornburg will make them pay properly for their crimes, but with your help, I will do what I can here and now. Is your fear greater than your rage, or will you help me?"

Éohild sniffed and looked down to the grass, nodding quietly. Braint looked to her brother as he put an arm about her. His face had softened a little, but still it was marked with a scowl.

"Why her? Why can't you do it? Or me?"

Braint was growing impatient, but she could not risk losing them now, so as she turned to keep watch, she spoke a reply.

"Because I am a warrior. He will see it in me and he will not follow, or he will call his orcs and we will all die. Your sister's strength is inside her, and it will hide behind her fear. I have watched this man. He has no honour: he preys on the helpless and fearful, even when it is not safe to do so. He can not resist, and tonight he will pay."

Braint's eyes did not move from the road below all the time she spoke and now, she saw what she had been waiting for: three horsemen were riding towards the village at a trot. From the way they were slumped in the saddle, two of them were already thick with ale. The third, a ghostly figure, whose body was daubed with clay, lime and charcoal, rode upright, his body moving fluidly with the gait of the horse. Braint reached back and slapped the youth Éolmir on the shoulder.

"Go, now! Keep low and ride hard, tell them to make ready!"

The three horsemen were riding closer now, two of them laughing loudly as they surveyed the ruins of the Westfold. Braint glanced back over her shoulder. Éolmir was hugging his sister tightly and whispering something in the speech of Rohan.

"No time! Go I said!_ Go_!"

With a sniff, he was gone, and moments later, she heard distant hooves as he mounted a stabled horse and fled, two spearthrows distant and as yet out of sight of her approaching prey, though only just. Braint's heart was pounding hard in her chest. The horsemen were closer. She could see his face now... Berkos, Haldad of the Torbruggi. Gaunt and bearded he sat upon a flashy white horse. A gaudy torc in the shape of an eel was coiled about his neck, and at his belt glinted a flash of gold from the pommel of a long blade. Her father's blade. _Her_ blade. Rage fought with grief and terror in her chest, and she felt weak. Her head and ribs throbbed from the blows she had received. Hands shaking, she reached behind her and pulled Éohild forward to crouch next to her. Braint glanced down at her. She was sobbing quietly, and seemed small and frail as she shook with fear. Taking pity, Braint wrapped an arm around her and murmured in her ear.

"Be brave, Rohiril. I have seen your kinsmen ride, and none can catch you. All you must do is cross the brook, and nothing may harm you there. I will be close behind and I give you my life's oath I will not let them harm you. Go now, and do not falter!"

Feeling wretched, Braint pushed Éohild firmly out from the shadows of the overturned cart, where she stood dumbly for a moment before running across the street, whimpering quietly. Braint watched her, following her pale hair as it passed the gloom behind one of the un-burnt barns, towards the crossroads and the three riders.

A harsh voice barked out in the tongue of the Hills: "Hyn! Forgoil!"

Fast as a snake, the ghosted rider tugged forth a sling from his belt, loaded and begun to whirl it through the air. Éohild screamed, and Braint's gut tightened almost unbearably. But the Ghost did not let loose his shot. Berkos laughed and laid a hand upon his shoulder. He muttered something, grinning to his drink-sodden companion, who laughed lecherously.

"Come closer, girl! I have something for you!" called Berkos, walking his horse towards her.

Every muscle in Braint's body was tensed. Éohild should have run by now. She was frozen to the spot, letting them get too close. Braint felt sick.

Another scream, and Éohild was running for her life, sprinting for the tethered horses away in the gloom. Laughing raucously, Berkos and his guards broke into a slow canter to pursue. Braint waited, not daring to show herself before the Ghost's expressionless eyes were averted. She did not dare look at him, lest he felt her gaze. The three horsemen were galloping now: Éohild had reached the stable, and they had spotted the horses. They were closing fast...

Braint got up, and began to sprint towards the stables, just as a flash of silver showed that Éohild had finally managed to untie and mount a horse. She had picked a fine steed, too: a tall grey gelding that had belonged to an Éored message-rider. As the hooves of the four horses thundered away down the roadway, Braint sprinted into the stables and leapt upon her horse's back to give chase.

The four flicking tails of her quarry came into sight as her horse warmed to the run, swishing and curling through the moonlight. She kept enough distance that they would not hear her through the rushing air, but her mount was straining hard to keep its speed.

_Idiot. Does your shrivelled manhood really make you so easy to bait, Berkos?_

With a thrill, Braint caught a glimpse of Éohild's long-legged grey as it leapt across the brook and passed into the woods. She grinned as a rope suddenly whipped tight across the way behind the passing grey. The Ghost and honour guard saw the cord too late. Their steeds screamed as they tumbled into the trap, smashing to the rocky ground in a mess of broken limbs and blood Spears rained on the fallen bodies as they twitched or struggled to rise. Unable to stop, Berkos' mount leapt to avoid the tumbling bodies, then screamed in terror as a great black shape loomed up in the path ahead of it. A great bear stood upon its hind paws, reaching wide with its dreadful claws and snarling like a demon. Rearing high, the horse turned and threw its rider before bolting back the way it had come, passing Braint in a flurry of wild mane and fright.

Skittering to a stop, Braint dismounted and advanced on Berkos as he crawled desperately backwards from the advancing bear. Its face was something from a nightmare. In place of fur, its maw was covered with bare pink skin and long-healed gashes, as though it had awoken as an inept huntsman tried to skin it. With a terrible yammering snarl, it advanced on Berkos as he struggled to his feet.

"No, Huer, not this one."

Braint spoke quietly, but her words seemed to cut through the noise, and the monstrous bear rumbled to silence and sat upon its great haunches. Berkos whipped around, drawing his sword, then glancing past her, he began to run for her horse, a look of furious determination upon his face. A rustling came from the woods around, and the way was blocked. Dozens of shadowed figures flowed from the trees to encircle Braint and Berkos, many drawing bows and axes and blades as they moved. Berkos stopped dead and fumbled at his belt.

"Raise that horn to your lips, Berkos, and Huer will knock your head from your shoulders before it sounds."

A look of anger flashed briefly across Berkos' face, before he drew himself tall and called out in haughty tones:

"And what brigants are these who accost Berkos, Haldad of the great Torbruggi tribe, heir of Wulf the Scourge, and cherished ally of the White Hand!"

Berkos stood tall and commanding, his battered frame not withered by age but made tough, like an old oak.

"Heir of Wulf? You think that because you hold that blade, you are his heir? You were not even warrior enough to take it from my father's hand yourself. Though he killed your son, you had not the courage to face him!"

Braint spat upon the ground between them. Berkos raised a brow.

"Your father? Then you are Cambriani? I remember, of course... then you must be Braint... or Lanis?"

Such rage filled Braint's body that her vision seemed to flare red and her limbs shook. Words stumbled at her tongue as she sought to give vent to her fury.

"You – how... dare... YOU DO NOT SPEAK MY SISTER'S NAME! YOU CANNOT – YOU DARE..."

Her words became an incoherent snarl, and she reached for her blade. Behind Berkos, the bear Huer growled and clambered to his feet. A hand landed upon Braint's shoulder, and a voice spoke softly to her.

"Not like this. Your anger will kill you"

Braint turned sharply, and scowled, pushing Brigit's hand away, but she calmed a little. The number of times she had told Brigit to control her rage... it was foolish to break her own advice at such a crucial moment.

"I apologise, Braint Haldad. I did not mean to open old wounds," Berkos bowed his head, and Braint again fought to control the boiling in her blood. "And perhaps you misunderstood me. I do not claim to be the blood descendent of Wulf, Freca's son. I am his heir in spirit, for I lead the Tribes as we take back what was stolen from us so long ago. If you are truly Wulf's honoured kin, then surely you can understand the greatness of this endeavour? We are reclaiming our lands! Turning the tide of blood from our people to our enemies! Ridding ourselves of the shackles of Gondor and Rohan. I seek to finish what your honoured ancestor began! Is that not a worthy goal?"

Berkos spoke with the practice of one who had addressed thousands and roused them to war, but Braint was unmoved. She looked past him to Éohild and Éolmir, to Breyi and Bered, her young kinsmen; to the few Sunonni warriors who had not been slaughtered at their Dun, and past them, to the faces that were not there, but should have been: Cumal, Luain, Caradoc, Gwyddhien, Tolin, Donos, Merkos, Nemma, Lanis...

"Worthy? No land, no pride is worth the blood you have spilled. You speak of turning the tide, yet you have your animals butcher children and elders; you rape, burn and destroy! You killed _my_ people! You allow your womenfolk to be desecrated by fiends! You ally with a craven wizard and his urkish minions to burn a path through Calenardhon, and you speak of breaking shackles? If this is what Wulf began, then I spit upon his memory!"

Berkos sighed.

"I regret that the Cambriani made themselves the enemy of the Tribes. The army of Many Colours would have been the fairer for your blue cloaks, Haldad, but your kin were blinded by their hatred of the orc-kin, and could not see that they are merely a weapon! And as for the White Hand, He is their master, and He is our ally. You know little of Him if you call him a mere wizard. He is a messenger of the Old Gods, sent here out of the West to see justice done in these lands. Even the Elderhin immortals say it is so. He is the wise hand that guides the armies of the Gods to their rightful victory! Your grandfather could not see his wisdom, and neither could your mother. It was with great sorrow that we saw the brave Cambriani turn against us, who should rightfully be at the tip of the spear! But it is not too late. We march for the Hornburg, and with the guidance of the Hand, we can not fail."

"No. You speak of great glory and freedom, but I have been watching you, Berkos. I have seen your desires acted out, and no victory is worth such crimes. For all your pretty words, you came to this glade hoping to rape and kill a child! What of the laws of the Fair Kill, and of the Pairing? Do they only apply when someone wrongs against you? You _have - no – honour!_ I feel only shame and sickness to think that your armies might take back our old lands. The gods piss upon you and those who do your bidding! Draw my father's sword if you will, but your head will rest upon a spike, and your body will be scattered among the trees for your master's crows!"

Berkos sighed and shed his cloak. He was not a frail man. The wired muscles of many years' fighting stretched taut as he flexed his arms, ready to face her.

"So be it, little Haldad. I will fight you now, if you agree to the match before the Gods. If I kill you, then I shall walk free and the blood-debt is settled. Agree to this or I shall blow my horn and die knowing that you and all of your followers will suffer long before you come to join me across the river. Perhaps when we meet upon the other side, we will look together on the world and you will see the worth of what I have done."

Braint looked across at him levelly. She was a little surprised that he had not sought a more cowardly way out, but then she should have expected that. Berkos was not a coward. He was the worst kind of snake: he sought out the weak and struck without warning; not out of fear but of malice and guile. He might even have believed that he was acting for the good of the tribes, but Braint _knew_. She did not have to be a Dreamer to look past his mask. Berkos was black-hearted. For all that he shone like a gilt spear in the sun, his core was corrupted and cruel, and no God would ever let such a man cross the River. His soul would be swept away and become nothing. A cold glee seared through her veins and her muscles shivered.

She was not afraid now. She felt she could not be afraid. _This_ was what she wanted. Love, warmth, safety - none of these things mattered. None of them could truly _be_ without vengeance, and she was on its verge.

"So let it be, Berkos. Draw my father's sword with your unworthy hand. It knows its master and it will taste your blood ere long."

Berkos bowed, and Braint spat upon the ground.

Steel glinted in the moonlight as the two blades were drawn and they began to circle. Braint closed in, watching Berkos closely. He was not afraid of her either: that much much was clear. It did not matter. The blood sang in her veins and all weariness fell away. Her first strike was that of a snake and Berkos barely managed to parry. The second caused him to stagger as he struggled to raise a blade to block it, and the third scored a red line across his shin. He did not cry out, but swung his shield, forcing Braint to hop back and give him time to gather himself again.

His eyes darted across her face, calculating. He had underestimated her and it showed in his face. He squared his shoulders again and took a deep breath. Braint tilted her head and left herself open, mocking. He would not close, though. Only a fool took such obvious bait.

Braint's feet danced under her as she circled, letting herself bound forwards and feint back several times and noting the twitch in the sword tip that showed Berkos' uncertainty. Making as though to lunge, Braint whipped about her left hand and let fly the pebble that had been warming in her palm straight for Berkos' head, then shot forwards – straight onto his blade.

Its twitching had been a feint; Berkos was less rattled than he had wished to seem. He had avoided the thrown pebble with a slight inclination of his neck and lunged at Braint's charge. It was all she could do to batter at the old sword and divert it to her left, but not enough. The encircling crowd gasped as the blade of Wulf the scourge bit into Braint's belly. Shock and a sharp, needling pain coursed through her body, but it was not enough to overwhelm her fury at being impaled upon her father's sword. Her forehead swung forwards and Broke Berkos' nose, and with a howl she kicked out at the inside of his knee, forcing it to the ground sideways so that the cartilage popped and tendons tore, sending fresh waves of crippling agony through her side.

Staggering backwards, she looked down at herself. A red mist of fury seemed to gauze her eyes and she gripped the gilt serpent handle of her father's sword, tugging it from her body with an inhuman howl, and pushing the sensation of sickness and torment to the back of her mind. She was not finished yet. She growled as the blade pulled loose, crimson with her blood, and gripped it hard in her right hand, dropping the shorter blade and using that hand to stop herself from falling.

Something seemed to ring in her mind as she advanced upon Berkos' prostrate form – something akin to a song. No, that was not it. It was the shape a song would leave in her mind, but without the sound...

Berkos was crawling backwards now. His face betrayed no fear, but his pain reduced him. No longer was he the craven lord of the united Tribes; now he was a spiteful old man. The wolf-skin pelt across his shoulders looked greasy and unkempt; his gums were pale where his lips drew back as he spat upon the grass; a vicious, merciless old snake.

"Go on then, whelp! Gods shit on you, little girl! It will be my name they remember, not y - "

Wulf's blade swished through the air in a dreadful arc, biting through Berkos' neck as though it were nothing more than damp straw. There was a sigh from the crowd as his head thumped to the ground.

_Odd_, Braint thought. _I had forgotten how fine a blade it was._

Arms grapsed at her shoulders, lifting her from a slump. She had not known she was on the ground... Brigit's face radiated concern and fear as she looked into Braint's eyes and slapped gently at her cheeks. She thumbed her forehead in salute as Braint looked at her.

"Haldad. You have won. It is over."

"No..." Braint slurred. Pain was pricking at all the edges of her mind, threatening to overwhelm her. She breathed in sharply and straightened her head. "No, not yet."

With a shaking hand, she fumbled at her belt for her knife, and pushed it into Brigit's hand. The girl nodded grimly. The Sunonni and the remnants were already there... men, women and children closing in silently upon the body of their enemy, knives in hand and cold calm on their faces.

Braint could feel her heart weakening, but spoke still to Brigit as the night closed in. "Make of him the blood-dragon. Let its curse lie on their hearts and make them … weak... in battle. Harry them, slow them, make them fear to close their eyes at night..."

They would take his parts and his blood and daub upon the ground the form of a dragon. His head would be mounted upon a spear and his horn would be blown. Then when his folk found him, they would know who had slain him; they would know that the heir of Wulf the Scourge cursed their venture and damned them all to drown in the river.

The great bear grunted and turned away from them; the rest, who were not of the tribes and did not understand either turned their faces in disgust and horror, cried out or gravely looked on as Berkos' body was taken apart.

...and then all was gone.

High above in the jewelled blue sky, an eagle sang. It was a God-eagle: far distant, but its note was clear and carried words upon the wind. It had come for her - her dream-guide. It would lead her to the banks of the black river and sing of her deeds as she crossed its great strait, leading her to her family. She did not regret it.

...but it was not singing of her. No, it sang of a great darkness passing, and it did not wait for her to follow, but drifted on to the sunlit horizon. She tried to rise and follow, but fell immediately back onto her sweat-soaked bed as her side burned fiercely. It was not the grinding agony of a festering wound, but the chiding sting of a healing scar.

She smiled.


	21. Chapter 21: The Fourth Age

It was odd to see Éolmir again, though she was glad that he had survived. He was a man now; he even had a rough beard chafing on the strap of his helm. His company was welcome – though his sense of humour had not improved - but it was also necessary, for the road to the south Kingdom passed through the Westfold, and the folk there remembered what had been, so when a group of Dunlendings rode through their lands on horses of Rohirrim stock, in all their finest battle-dress and coloured cloaks, they were bound to draw hostility. Éolmir went ahead of them, bearing the flag of their king Éomer that guaranteed their safety, and spoke to those who would accost them along the way.

What Braint and the Sunonni had done was not widely known throughout the lands, for she was the stock of Dunland – the folk who had made up part of the army that had nearly brought ruin on Rohan and Gondor. To the folk of Rohan, every Dunlending was a rapist and a murderer. It was odd how it did not seem to matter to them that some tribes had suffered the same fate from the same foes: they wore torcs and woad, and so they were guilty. They did not speak of the tribes who dissented and were slain; of the vicious struggle for leadership that left the Dunlendings in disarray, or the groups of many hundreds of warriors who broke away from the Horde and went home both out of shame and to rescue their kin from ravaging orcs. The King of the South knew, though, for Halbarad had told him of them before he had died, and so she, and delegates from all of the tribes that had not disgraced themselves utterly rode now to treat with him, and settle terms of a peace that would last. Even tribes who had once been her bitter enemies had wished for Braint and Dubhornos to go, for they had acted with honour, so this southern King could not so easily use shame to gain concessions from them.

"Mam, why are they looking at us like that?" Cailin asked, looking up at her mother from where she perched on the saddle before her.

"Because they do not know us," Braint responded, squeezing her daughter's shoulder and kissing her hair that was a deep, dark red the colour of dried blood. She had dressed Cailin in the white robes of summer and a garland of wildflowers about her head, a little stripe of blue woad on the apple of each cheek: symbol of beauty and innocence, but undoubtedly of the tribes. As she looked up with her big, pretty grey eyes, it was difficult not to be reminded of the girl's aunt. She had that same stare that stripped away all pretence, but hers was a sunnier outlook on the world. Braint had brought her not only because she could not bear to leave her at home, but because she had to learn what it was to stand among the powerful and not be afraid, and to show that Dunlendings were a folk like any other, with children and families, capable of love as well as hate. Braint had worried about the cynicism of using her daughter like that, but the thought had not been born in dishonesty. She had determined to bring her eldest child, and if she was to do so then she would present her at her best, just as she herself would not dress like some ragged beggar from Breeland. More than that, though, Cailin was adored among the tribes, but she might one day be Haldad of the Cambriani and Sunonni tribes, so she had to know that there were those in the world who were as likely to hate her as to love her, and with far less reason. All the same, the bitter stares of the Rohirrim did not soothe Braint's soul.

The lands had changed, and yet they had not. The villages were rebuilt, the seasons turned, but the mountains yet stood, and the grasses and air smelt as sweet as ever they had. They stopped by the roadway late in the day, so that Braint and Breyi could speak a prayer upon the cairn that marked where Brigit and twelve others had been slain by the pursuing Great-Urk scouts. Breyi wept, and both Braint and Cailin embraced her as she did. Dubhornos and Codi laid flowers upon the cairn and spoke a solemn verse, whilst the delegates from the other tribes waited ahorse.

The weeks passed, and so did the mountains as their road took them out of Rohan and farther south than Braint had ever been. It was warmer here, despite the chill of the mountains, and the plains were broad and green. After a time, they came into farmlands such as Braint had never seen before: broad square fields with rich black soil that looked like they could feed many thousands of people; great orchards and vineyards and pasture lands. It was all to a scale beyond anything she had imagined, and explained much in the old tales about the power of the Numen who had come out of the West.

Greatest of all, though, was the White City. It was by far the grandest thing that Braint had ever seen. It was to a dun what a mountain is to a boulder. A great, seven-tiered citadel of stone, toothed with sharp towers flying black banners proudly in the breeze. It was difficult to imagine the army that it must have taken to threaten such a city. The wars of the tribes were little things: mere skirmishes to allow warriors to settle blood debts and win glory for their own name, not clashes of conquest and destruction.

_That is why the tribes could never win_, she realised. _To have such things as this would take a kind of subservience that our pride would not allow: to do as you are told without question, to be part of a greater thing, a tool for Kings to use to break open other kingdoms and pillage their wealth. Loyal to your King before your own honour. Too much trust in one man._

When the tribes united, it was only ever as a temporary army, and it was intended to force a change; to claim back lands for us each to snatch a share of, that we might go back to squabbling over the choicest cuts. The tribes did not truly act as one: they never had and never should, because that kind of unity of aggression would make them forget what is most important: their families and their friends, honour and pride. War should only ever be in defence of those things. When they united it was out of hatred and fear, and so they were led by the most hateful and fearsome man among them, the man who made them want more than was their due, who used their fear and anger and ancient tales of pride and war to make them do terrible things.

_And now I must convince this King of theirs that we are better than that. Make him see what we are and can be..._

Braint looked about at the sour faces of the Rohirrim as they rode past.

_There is only one way to do that_.

Forget hatred. Hatred had festered in the tribes for generations beyond count. It had poisoned even the honourable to follow a man who could not be trusted; made them keep going when they saw the cruelty of their horde, and to wear the colours of no-tribe. The once-proud women of the Torbruggi tribe had opened their legs to demons and created monsters to give shape to their hatred. And then, at the moment of their victory, the Gods themselves had marched against the horde; a great forest had risen up and crushed the Great-Urk into nothing and the tribesfolk had quailed. And now, the _only_ reason that they did not feed the grasses of Rohan was that the Forgoil king had set aside his hatred and let them live. And so they had marched back to their duns to find many of them burned to the ground, pillaged by the very demons some of them had once coupled with. These are the rewards of hatred and greed.

There must be a new way. She would find it.


	22. Epilogue

That was not the end of Braint's story, but it was the end of that part of her life defined by the events of her childhood, for though she was only seventeen years old when she slew Berkos, it was the moment at which she passed from being Braint of the Cambriani, to being Braint of the Two Tribes. The Cambriani were broken - only children remained, and much of their tribal lore was forever lost - but the Sunonni still had Dreamers and Elders enough to serve the rites of life and death, for a tribe to continue to be. In practice, the two tribes became one, though they retained their separate names.

After the assault on the Horde, the Sunonni returned back to Dunland with Huer carrying Braint and defending her and the Cambriani children with a ferocity that made the Sunonni truly see the power of the Beornings. Once they were returned to the ruins of Dun Sunon, Huer took a small band of Dubhoros' warriors, including Dubhornos himself and Elis mac Brennovic into the lands of every tribe closest to the mountains in turn, and there tore through the raiding parties of orcs, seeding rumours that the vengeful spirit of Caradoc the Bear's Rage – Braint's father – had returned to life with an honour guard of his once-Kinsmen of the Sunonni tribe. They earned great respect and fear, and even some gratitude, for the Wronged Tribes among their enemies.

When the warriors of the horde returned, they brought with them tales of how the heir of Wulf the scourge had been made invisible by the Gods so that she could walk unharmed into the midst of the great horde and cut Berkos into a hundred pieces, scattering him into the Cambriani sign of the dragon made in blood, and asking the Gods to rise up and smite the horde for their terrible crimes. Then, of course, that had happened. The White Wanderer – messenger of the old Gods – had arrived at the head of a forest of walking tree-gods summoned up by the curses of the Forgoil and the Numen and the Wronged Tribes all together, and that the Gods had crushed the Uruk-hai and smitten down the old fortress upon the Iron river, returning it for ever to ruin to punish Sharku for his hubris.

As the Forgoil king had showed mercy on the Tribes, so had the warriors of the Bear slain the mountain orcs attacking their families without reaping vengeance or reward from the survivors. So the tribes knew that their pride and hatred had led them into folly.

When Braint awoke from her fever, it was to hear the news upon the wind that some Great Enemy in the south had been destroyed for ever, and with him fell much of the power of the orcs and dark things that were his minions. She took time to recover, and found that the Sunonni had largely rebuilt their Dun. When the Sunonni war party returned with Huer, a council was convened, for the leadership of the Sunonni had been slain years previously. It was decided that Braint - whose father and uncle had been brothers of the previous Haldad - could be Haldad of both tribes, until such time as there were enough folk for the tribes to split again if she so wished. In stead, she named Dubhornos to the honour, since he was also nephew of the old Haldad, but he declined, and so Braint came to rule both tribes and chose Elis mac Brennovic to be her man. She quickly became pregnant, and oversaw the final reconstruction of Dun Sunon. The folk of the Sunonni and Cambriani would slowly grow in size and spread through the old farmsteads of both tribes, but she could not face the ruins of Dun Cambrien yet.

The Two Tribes grew rapidly over the next few years, for the peace proved fertile. Not only did Braint bear a healthy daughter, but four years later a son, and then another daughter two years after that. Many folk of the disgraced tribes came to Dun Sunon either to ask forgiveness, or hoping to join or marry into the tribes that had shown themselves to have the sympathy of the Gods. Those suitors who came were tested in the old ways; through the setting and completion of challenges, and a year of devout service to the tribe, at the end of which each member would cast a vote as to the worthiness of the incomer and either accept them or banish them back to the tribes from which they had come.

So, after eight years, the Two Tribes had grown to be hundreds strong, and led the tribes of the North. The Atrabii, whose warriors had been slain and eaten by Urk on the march came to lead the tribes of the heartland, and the Culomni rose to rule over the chastened Torbruggi lands after the tribe was broken up in disgrace, and were the hub of the south. The Larachis continued to be a problem, but they and their many brigant outcasts also offered a valid enemy for young warriors of other tribes to gain their kill-feathers against. A great council was called as riders came from the King in the South, inviting them to talks, and a great many Haldads gathered their retinues to travel. There they met with the King Elessar and King Eomer, and came to terms of a permanent peace with both Kingdoms, managing to retain their independence and customs, excepting only the rights asserted upon the Greenway, which was declared a King's road through tribelands, and protected by sacred oath.

On the return journey, Huer appeared before the delegation in the vale of Anduin and saw Braint for the first time since she had been made Haldad of the Two Tribes, years before. She and Dubhornos, Breyi and Codi welcomed him with great warmth, for all of them had grown attached to him both on the march south; the return to the tribelands, and for Dubhornos and Codi, during the hunting of the orcs among the Duns. Cailin made a fine first impression firstly by showing no fear, and secondly by telling Huer that she could see the face that he was missing, and that it was that of a kindly old man. Long before then, Braint had suspected and hoped that her daughter would be a Dreamer like Lanis, and it seemed then to be true.

The rest of the delegates kept a fearful and respectful difference from the great faceless man, knowing the rumours of the spirits the Two Tribes walked with, and so Braint and her group split away from them and returned north with Huer, passing through the vales of Anduin, walking for a time in Mirkwood and visiting the great halls of Grimbeorn. They went as far as the Lonely Mountain, where Nalnain the gentle-hand had settled: the dwarf who was both an old friend of Huer's, and he who had helped Braint to forge the moon-torc for Lanis. There, they bought, received and made gifts and returned again, passing back through Mirkwood and up through the high pass of the Misty Mountains, where Huer presented Braint, her daughter and her folk to the God-Eagles, offering them gifts of her own making and speaking with them for a time, before continuing down the Western side of the mountains. There they stayed for a little while in Rivendell, that had become the house of Elladan and Elrohir after their father had left for the West. There, Huer turned back for the mountains and they bade him a fond farewell. It is not known whether they ever met again, though legends of the great faceless bear-God haunted Dunland for many generations after.

The party left Rivendell at the end of autumn, stopping briefly in Breeland before heading back south, where they returned by chance to Dun Sunon upon the eve of the solstice. Braint and Elis had two more children, and two years later Braint departed to oversee the rebuilding of Dun Cambrien, so that it became the seat of power of the northern Dunlending tribes.

Even though the Two Tribes grew large enough to split, they did not, and when Braint eventually died – her life, like that of many of her family before her was long by the reckoning of men – her daughter Cailin the True-seer became Haldad of both Cambriani and Sunonni tribes, taking up her seat in Dunn Sunon where she was born. The two tribes kept their names, but ever after shared a Haldad, and a new emblem: the faceless bear.


End file.
